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IBuDtarD  Kipling 


I  recognized"t1ie  head  ol  nrc  man  of  Marwar  Junction 
^p&jav^eUfe  John  Andi  .iltyktliaginal  by  \V.  <£illij»8fl8k 


a  i;  i  n  *j  1 1  i 

bnA  nrfol  v<l  91 


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HfttDyarD  ftlplfng 


Cijr  Jlotttntrtjam  ^ocittp 


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|)rjilaticlrjrjta 


Chicago 


4* 


tuition  it  Huic 

PRINTED  FOR   SUBSCRIBERS    ONLY 
LIMITED  TO  ONE   THOUSAND   SETS 


Copyright,  1909 

BY   THE    KIHNKIIMUI   SOCIETY 


CONTENTS 


P«GK 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw   i 

My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 43 

The    Strange    Ride     of     Morrowbie 

Jukes    61 

The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 105 

"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  . .   173 


rickshaw 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  Recognized  the  Head  of  the  Man 
of  Marwar  Junction.  (Sec  page 
169)    Frontispiece 

Photogravure    by    John    Andrew    &    Son    after 
original  by   IV.  Kirkpatriek 

She  Learned  that  I  was  Sick  of  Her 

Presence    7 

Mezzogravure    by   John    Andrew    &    Son    after 
original  by   IV.  Kirkpatriek 

I   Struggled  Clear,   Sweating    with 

Terror    89 

Mezzogravure    by   John    Andrew    &    Son    after 
original  by    IV.   Kirkpatriek 

She  had  Never  Been  Kissed  by  a  Man 

Before 225 

Mezzogravure    by    John    Andrczv    &    Son    after 
original  by   IV.  Kirkpatriek 


RICKSHAW 


THE    PHANTOM    'RICKSHAW 


THE    PHANTOM    'RICKSHAW 

May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
Nor   Powers  of   Darkness   me   molest. 

— Evening  Hymn. 

ONE  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has 
over  England  is  a  great  Km  inability. 
After  five  years'  service  a  man  is  directly  or  in- 
directly acquainted  with  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes 
of  ten  or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries,  and 
some  fifteen  hundred  other  people  of  the  non- 
official  caste.  In  ten  years  his  knowledge 
should  be  doubled,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty  he 
knows,  or  knows  something  about,  every  Eng- 
lishman in  the  Empire,  and  may  travel  any- 
where and  everywhere  without  paying  hotel- 
bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as 
a  right,  have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted 
this  open-heartedness,  but  none  the  less  to-day, 
if  you  belong  to  the  Inner  Circle  and  are 
neither  a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep,  all  houses 
are  open  to  you,  and  our  small  world  is  very 
kind  and  helpful. 

I 


2  THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  Polder  of 
Kumaon  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant  to 
stay  two  nights,  but  was  knocked  down  by 
rheumatic  fever,  and  for  six  weeks  disorgan- 
ized Polder's  establishment,  stopped  Polder's 
work,  and  nearly  died  in  Polder's  bedroom. 
Polder  behaves  as  though  he  had  been  placed 
under  eternal  obligation  by  Rickett,  and  yearly 
sends  the  little  Ricketts  a  box  of  presents  and 
toys.  It  is  the  same  everywhere.  The  men 
who  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  conceal  from 
you  their  opinion  that  you  are  an  incompetent 
ass,  and  the  women  who  blacken  your  charac- 
ter and  misunderstand  your  wife's  amuse- 
ments, will  work  themselves  to  the  bone  in  your 
behalf  if  you  fall  sick  or  into  serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition 
to  his  regular  practice,  a  hospital  on  his  pri- 
vate account — an  arrangement  of  loose  boxes 
for  Incurables,  his  friends  called  it— but  it  was 
really  a  sort  of  fitting-up  shed  for  craft  that 
had  been  damaged  by  stress  of  weather.  The 
weather  in  India  is  often  sultry,  and  since  the 
tale  of  bricks  is  always  a  fixed  quantity,  and 
the  only  liberty  allowed  is  permission  to  work 
overtime  and  get  no  thanks,  men  occasionally 
break  down  and  become  as  mixed  as  the  meta- 
phors in  this  sentence. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  3 

Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever 
was,  and  his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his 
patients  is,  "lie  low,  go  slow,  and  keep  cool." 
He  says  that  more  men  are  killed  by  overwork 
than  the  importance  of  this  world  justifies. 
He  maintains  that  overwork  slew  Pansay,  who 
died  under  his  hands  about  three  years  ago. 
He  has,  of  course,  the  right  to  speak  authorita- 
tively, and  he  laughs  at  my  theory  that  there 
was  a  crack  in  Pansay's  head  and  a  little  bit 
of  the  Dark  World  came  through  and  pressed 
him  to  death.  "Pansay  went  off  the  handle," 
says  Heatherlegh,  "after  the  stimulus  of  long 
leave  at  Home.  He  may  or  he  may  not  have 
behaved  like  a  blackguard  to  Mrs.  Keith- Wes- 
sington.  My  notion  is  that  the  work  of  the 
Katabundi  Settlement  ran  him  off  his  legs, 
and  that  he  took  to  brooding  and  making  much 
of  an  ordinary  P.  &  O.  flirtation.  He  cer- 
tainly was  engaged  to  Miss  Mannering,  and 
she  certainly  broke  off  the  engagement.  Then 
he  took  a  feverish  chill  and  all  that  nonsense 
about  ghosts  developed.  Overwork  started  his 
illness,  kept  it  alight,  and  killed  him,  poor 
devil.  Write  him  off  to  the  System — one  man 
to  take  the  work  of  two  and  a  half  men." 

I  do  not  believe  this.     I  used  to  sit  up  with 
Pansay    sometimes    when    Heatherlegh    was 


4  THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

called  out  to  patients,  and  I  happened  to  be 
within  claim.  The  man  would  make  me  most 
unhappy  by  describing  in  a  low,  even  voice, 
the  procession  that  was  always  passing  at  the 
bottom  of  his  bed.  He  had  a  sick  man's  com- 
mand of  language.  When  he  recovered  I  sug- 
gested that  he  should  write  out  the  whole  af- 
fair from  beginning  to  end,  knowing  that  ink 
might  assist  him  to  ease  his  mind.  When  little 
boys  have  learned  a  new  bad  word  they  are 
never  happy  till  they  have  chalked  it  up  on  a 
door.     And  this  also  is  Literature. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writ- 
ing, and  the  blood-and-thunder  Magazine  dic- 
tion he  adopted  did  not  calm  him.  Two 
months  afterward  he  was  reported  fit  for  duty, 
but,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  urgently 
needed  to  help  an  undermanned  Commission 
stagger  through  a  deficit,  he  preferred  to  die; 
vowing  at  the  last  that  he  was  hag-ridden.  I 
got  his  manuscript  before  he  died,  and  this  is 
his  version  of  the  affair,  dated  1885 : 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and 
change  of  air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  I  shall 
get  both  ere  long — rest  that  neither  the  red- 
coated  messenger  nor  the  midday  gun  can 
break,    and    change    of    air    far    beyond    that 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  5 

which  any  homeward-bound  steamer  can  give 
me.  In  the  meantime  1  am  resolved  to  stay- 
where  I  am;  and,  in  flat  defiance  of  my  doc- 
tor's orders,  to  take  all  the  world  into  my  con- 
fidence. You  shall  learn  for  yourselves  the 
precise  nature  of  my  malady;  and  shall,  too, 
judge  for  yourselves  whether  any  man  born  of 
woman  on  this  weary  earth  was  ever  so  tor- 
mented as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal 
might  speak  ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my 
story,  wild  and  hideously  improbable  as  it  may 
appear,  demands  at  least  attention.  That  it 
will  ever  receive  credence  I  utterly  disbelieve. 
Two  months  ago  I  should  have  scouted  as  mad 
or  drunk  the  man  who  had  dared  tell  me  the 
like.  Two  months  ago  I  was  the  happiest  man 
in  India.  To-day,  from  Peshawur  to  the  sea, 
there  is  no  one  more  wretched.  My  doctor 
and  I  are  the  only  two  who  know  this.  His 
explanation  is,  that  my  brain,  digestion,  and 
eyesight  are  all  slightly  affected ;  giving  rise  to 
my  frequent  and  persistent  "delusions."  De- 
lusions, indeed!  I  call  him  a  fool;  but  he  at- 
tends me  still  with  the  same  unwearied  smile, 
the  same  bland  professional  manner,  the  same 
neatly  trimmed  red  whiskers,  till  T  begin  to 
suspect  that  I  am  an  ungrateful,  evil-tempered 
invalid.     But  you  shall  ]v<\^e  for  yourselves. 


6         THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune — my 
great  misfortune — to  sail  from  Gravesend  to 
Bombay,  on  return  from  long  leave,  with  one 
Agnes  Keith- Wessington,  wife  of  an  officer 
on  the  Bombay  side.  It  does  not  in  the  least 
concern  you  to  know  what  manner  of  woman 
she  was.  Be  content  with  the  knowledge  that, 
ere  the  voyage  had  ended,  both  she  and  I  were 
desperately  and  unreasoningly  in  love  with  one 
another.  Heaven  knows  that  I  can  make  the 
admission  now  without  one  particle  of  vanity. 
In  matters  of  this  sort  there  is  always  one 
who  gives  and  another  who  accepts.  From 
the  first  day  of  our  ill-omened  attachment,  I 
was  conscious  that  Agnes's  passion  was  a 
stronger,  a  more  dominant,  and — if  I  may  use 
the  expression — a  purer  sentiment  than  mine. 
Whether  she  recognized  the  fact  then,  I  do  not 
know.  Afterward  it  was  bitterly  plain  to  both 
of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  we  went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no 
more  for  the  next  three  or  four  months,  when 
my  leave  and  her  love  took  us  both  to  Simla. 
There  we  spent  the  season  together ;  and  there 
my  fire  of  straw  burned  itself  out  to  a  pitiful 
end  with  the  closing  year.  I  attempt  no  ex- 
cuse.    I  make  no  apology.     Mrs.  Wessington 


-I)  bamwl  sri8 

uicl    Xd  9UTVST80K9M 


6  PHANTOM  'RI'  K^HAW 

ee  years  ago   it   was   i  rtune — my 

tune — to  sail  fr<  vesend  to 

on  return  from  lon^  with  one 

3   Keith-Wessin.  in   officer 

on  the  Bombay  side.  the  least 

concern  you  to  know  woman 

she  was.    Be  content  e  that, 

ere  the  voyage  had  ei  1  were 

desperately  an  ith  one 

another.     Heave;  1               ke  the 

admission  now  \  le  o  t  vanity. 

In  matters  of  t;  •   is  always  one 

who  gives  and  <.  ^epts.     From 

the  first  day  of  i  tachment,  I 

was    conscious    tb  es'j            ion   was   a 
stronger,  a  more  d< 

the  expression — a  ;  sitimei 

Whether  she  i  t 

know.    After-  erly  plain  to 
of  us. 

Arrived   at  of  the 

year,  we  went  eet  no 

more  for  the  n<  or  i                 hs,  when 

my  leave  and  to  Simla. 

There  we  spen;  tog       er;  and  there 

my  fire  of  straw  -'tself  out  to  a  pitiful 

\'ith  the  cl  r.     I  attempt  no  ex- 
I  make  no  apology.     Mrs.  Wessingt" 


She  learned  that  I  was  sick  of  her  presence 
Mexzogravure  by  John  Andrew  &  Son  after  original  by  W.  Kirkpatnck 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  7 

had  given  up  much  for  my  sake,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  give  up  all.  From  my  own  lips,  in 
August,  1882,  she  learned  that  I  was  sick  of 
her  presence,  tired  of  her  company,  and  weary 
of  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Ninety-nine  women 
out  of  a  hundred  would  have  wearied  of  me  as 
I  wearied  of  them;  seventy-five  of  that  num- 
ber would  have  promptly  avenged  themselves 
by  active  and  obtrusive  flirtation  with  other 
men.  Mrs.  Wessington  was  the  hundredth. 
On  her  neither  my  openly  expressed  aversion 
nor  the  cutting  brutalities  with  which  I  gar- 
nished our  interviews  had  the  least  effect. 

"Jack,  darling!"  was  her  one  eternal  cuckoo 
cry:  "I'm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous 
mistake ;  and  we'll  be  good  friends  again  some 
day.     Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  dear." 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it.  That 
knowledge  transformed  my  pity  into  passive 
endurance,  and,  eventually,  into  blind  hate — 
the  same  instinct,  I  suppose,  which  prompts  a 
man  to  savagely  stamp  on  the  spider  he  has 
but  half  killed.  And  with  this  hate  in  my 
bosom  the  season  of  1882  came  to  an  end. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla — she  with 
her  monotonous  face  and  timid  attempts  at 
reconciliation,  and  I  with  loathing  of  her  in 
every   fibre   of   my    frame.      Several   times   I 


8  THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

could  not  avoid  meeting  her  alone ;  and  on  each 
occasion  her  words  were  identically  the  same. 
Still  the  unreasoning  wail  that  it  was  all  a 
"mistake";  and  still  the  hope  of  eventually 
"making  friends."  I  might  have  seen  had  I 
cared  to  look,  that  that  hope  only  was  keeping 
her  alive.  She  grew  more  wan  and  thin  month 
by  month.  You  will  agree  with  me,  at  least, 
that  such  conduct  would  have  driven  any  one 
to  despair.  It  was  uncalled  for ;  childish ;  un- 
womanly. I  maintain  that  she  was  much  to 
blame.  And  again,  sometimes,  in  the  black, 
fever-stricken  night-watches,  I  have  begun  to 
think  that  I  might  have  been  a  little  kinder  to 
her.  But  that  really  is  a  "delusion."  I  could 
not  have  continued  pretending  to  love  her 
when  I  didn't;  could  I?  It  would  have  been 
unfair  to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again — on  the  same  terms 
as  before.  The  same  weary  appeals,  and  the 
same  curt  answers  from  my  lips.  At  least  I 
would  make  her  see  how  wholly  wrong  and 
hopeless  were  her  attempts  at  resuming  the  old 
relationship.  As  the  season  wore  on,  we  fell 
apart — that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult  to 
meet  me,  for  I  had  other  and  more  absorbing 
interests  to  attend  to.  When  I  think  it  over 
quietly  in  my  sick-room,  the  season  of  1884 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW  9 

seems  a  confused  nightmare  wherein  light  and 
shade  were  fantastically  intermingled — my 
courtship  of  little  Kitty  Mannering;  my  hopes, 
doubts,  and  fears;  our  lung  rides  together;  my 
trembling  avowal  of  attachment;  her  reply; 
and  now  and  again  a  vision  of  a  white  face 
flitting  by  in  the  'rickshaw  with  the  black  and 
white  liveries  I  once  watched  for  so  earnestly ; 
the  wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington's  gloved  hand ; 
and,  when  she  met  me  alone,  which  was  but 
seldom,  the  irksome  monotony  of  her  appeal. 
I  loved  Kitty  Mannering;  honestly,  heartily 
loved  her,  and  with  my  love  for  her  grew  my 
hatred  for  Agnes.  In  August  Kitty  and  I 
were  engaged.  The  next  day  I  met  those  ac- 
cursed "magpie"  jhampanies  at  the  back  of 
Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some  passing  sentiment 
of  pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Wessington  every- 
thing.    She  knew  it  already. 

"So  I  hear  you're  engaged,  Jack,  dear." 
Then,  without  a  moment's  pause : — "I'm  sure 
it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous  mistake.  We 
shall  be  as  good  friends  some  day,  Jack,  as  we 
ever  were." 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man 
wince.  It  cut  the  dying  woman  before  me 
like  the  blow  of  a  whip.  "Please  forgive  me, 
Jack;  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  angry;  but 
it's  true,  it's  true!" 


io        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  com- 
pletely. I  turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish 
her  journey  in  peace,  feeling,  but  only  for  a 
moment  or  two,  that  I  had  been  an  unutterably 
mean  hound.  I  looked  back,  and  saw  that  she 
had  turned  her  'rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I  sup- 
pose, of  overtaking  me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photo- 
graphed on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky 
(we  were  at  the  end  of  the  wet  weather),  the 
sodden,  dingy  pines,  the  muddy  road,  and  the 
black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed  a  gloomy 
background  against  which  the  black  and  white 
liveries  of  the  jhampanies,  the  yellow-paneled 
'rickshaw  and  Mrs.  Wessington's  down-bowed 
golden  head  stood  out  clearly.  She  was  hold- 
ing her  handkerchief  in  her  left  hand  and 
was  leaning  back  exhausted  against  the  'rick- 
shaw cushions.  I  turned  my  horse  up  a  by- 
path near  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir  and  literally 
ran  away.  Once  I  fancied  I  heard  a  faint  call 
of  "Jadd"  This  may  have  been  imagination. 
I  never  stopped  to  verify  it.  Ten  minutes 
later  I  came  across  Kitty  on  horseback;  and, 
in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride  with  her,  forgot 
all  about  the  interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and  the 
inexpressible  burden  of  her  existence  was  re- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        i  r 

moved  from  my  life.  1  went  Plainsward  per- 
fectly happy.  Before  three  months  were  over 
I  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  excepl  that  at 
times  the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old  letters 
reminded  me  unpleasantly  of  our  bygone  re- 
lationship. By  January  I  had  disinterred 
what  was  left  of  our  correspondence  from 
among  my  scattered  belongings  and  had 
burned  it.  At  the  beginning  of  April  of  this 
year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla — semi-deserted 
Simla — once  more,  and  was  deep  in  lover's 
talks  and  walks  with  Kitty.  It  was  decided 
that  we  should  be  married  at  the  end  of  June. 
You  will  understand,  therefore,  that,  loving 
Kitty  as  I  did,  I  am  not  saying  too  much  when 
I  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at  that  time, 
the  happiest  man  in  India. 

Fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost  be- 
fore I  noticed  their  flight.  Then,  aroused  to 
the  sense  of  what  was  proper  among  mortals 
circumstanced  as  we  were,  I  pointed  out  to 
Kitty  that  an  engagement  ring  was  the  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  her  dignity  as  an  en- 
gaged girl ;  and  that  she  must  forthwith  come 
to  Hamilton's  to  be  measured  for  one.  Up  to 
that  moment,  I  give  you  my  word,  we  had 
completely  forgotten  so  trivial  a  matter.  To 
Hamilton's  we  accordingly  went  on  the  15th 


12       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

of  April,  1885.  Remember  that — whatever 
my  doctor  may  say  to  the  contrary — I  was 
then  in  perfect  health,  enjoying  a  well-balanced 
mind  and  an  absolutely  tranquil  spirit.  Kitty 
and  I  entered  Hamilton's  shop  together,  and 
there,  regardless  of  the  order  of  affairs,  I 
measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  presence  of 
the  amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a  sap- 
phire with  two  diamonds.  We  then  rode  out 
clown  the  slope  that  leads  to  the  Combermere 
Bridge  and  Peliti's  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his 
way  over  the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laugh- 
ing and  chattering  at  my  side — while  all  Simla, 
that  is  to  say  as  much  of  it  as  had  then  come 
from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round  the  Read- 
ing-room and  Peliti's  veranda, — I  was  aware 
that  some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance, 
was  calling  me  by  my  Christian  name.  It 
struck  me  that  I  had  heard  the  voice  before, 
but  when  and  where  I  could  not  at  once  deter- 
mine. In  the  short  space  it  took  to  cover  the 
road  between  the  path  from  Hamilton's  shop 
and  the  first  plank  of  the  Combermere  Bridge 
I  had  thought  over  half  a  dozen  people  who 
might  have  committed  such  a  solecism,  and 
had  eventually  decided  that  it  must  have  been 
singing    in    my   ears.      Immediately    opposite 


THE  PHANTOM   'RICKSHAW        [3 

Peliti's  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by  the  sight 
of  four  jhampanies  in  "magpie"  livery,  pulling 
a  yellow-paneled,  cheap,  bazar  'rickshaw.  In 
a  moment  my  mind  Hew  back  to  the  previous 
season  and  Mrs.  Wessington  with  a  sense  oi 
irritation  and  disgust.  Was  it  not  enough  that 
the  woman  was  dead  and  done  with,  without 
her  black  and  white  servitors  reappearing  to 
spoil  the  day's  happiness?  Whoever  employ)  d 
them  now  I  thought  I  would  call  upon,  and  ask- 
as  a  personal  favor  to  change  her  jhampanies' 
livery.  I  would  hire  the  men  myself,  and,  if 
necessary,  buy  their  coats  from  off  their  backs. 
It  is  impossible  to  say  here  what  a  flood  of  un- 
desirable memories  their  presence  evoked. 

"Kitty,"  I  cried,  "there  are  poor  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington's  jhampanies  turned  up  again!  I  won- 
der who  has  them  now?" 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly 
last  season,  and  had  always  been  interested  in 
the  sickly  woman. 

"What?  Where?"  she  asked.  "I  can't  see 
them  anywhere." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving  from 
a  laden  mule,  threw  himself  directly  in  front 
of  the  advancing  'rickshaw.  I  had  scarcely 
time  to  utter  a  word  of  warning  when,  to  my 
unutterable    horror,    horse    and    rider    passed 


14       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

through  men  and  carriage  as  if  they  had  been 
thin  air. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  Kitty;  "what 
made  you  call  out  so  foolishly,  Jack?  If  I  am 
engaged  I  don't  want  all  creation  to  know 
about  it.  There  was  lots  of  space  between  the 
mule  and  the  veranda;  and,  if  you  think  I  can't 
ride—    There!" 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty 
little  head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the 
direction  of  the  Band-stand;  fully  expecting, 
as  she  herself  afterward  told  me,  that  I  should 
follow  her.  What  was  the  matter?  Nothing 
indeed.  Either  that  I  was  mad  or  drunk,  or 
that  Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  I  reined 
in  my  impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The 
'rickshaw  had  turned  too,  and  now  stood  im- 
mediately facing  me,  near  the  left  railing  of 
the  Combermere  Bridge. 

"Jack!  Jack,  darling!"  (There  was  no  mis- 
take about  the  words  this  time :  they  rang 
through  my  brain  as  if  they  had  been  shouted 
•in  my  ear.)  "It's  some  hideous  mistake,  I'm 
sure.  Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  and  let's  be 
friends  again." 

The  'rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and  in- 
side, as  I  hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death  I 
dread  by  night,  sat   Mrs.   Keith-Wessington, 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        15 

handkerchief  in  hand,  and  golden  head  bowed 
on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  I  do  not 
know.  Finally,  I  was  aroused  by  my  syce  tak- 
ing the  Waler's  bridle  and  asking  whether  I 
was  ill.  From  the  horrible  to  the  common- 
place is  but  a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my  horse  and 
dashed,  half  fainting,  into  Peliti's  for  a  glass 
of  cherry  brandy.  There  two  or  three  couples 
were  gathered  round  the  coffee-tables  discuss- 
ing the  gossip  of  the  day.  Their  trivialities 
were  more  comforting  to  me  just  then  than  the 
consolations  of  religion  could  have  been.  I 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  conversation  at 
once;  chatted,  laughed,  and  jested  with  a  face 
(when  T  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror)  as 
white  and  drawn  as  that  of  a  corpse.  Three 
or  four  men  noticed  my  condition ;  and,  evi- 
dently setting  it  down  to  the  results  of  over- 
many  pegs,  charitably  endeavored  to  draw  me 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  loungers.  But  I  re- 
fused to  be  led  away.  I  wanted  the  company 
of  my  kind — as  a  child  rushes  into  the  midst 
of  the  dinner-party  after  a  fright  in  the  dark. 
I  must  have  talked  for  about  ten  minutes  or 
so,  though  it  seemed  an  eternity  to  me,  when  I 
heard  Kitty's  clear  voice  outside  inquiring  for 
me.     In  another  minute  she  had  entered  the 


1 6        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

shop,  prepared  to  roundly  upbraid  me  for  fail- 
ing so  signally  in  my  duties.  Something  in 
my  face  stopped  her. 

"Why,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "what  have  you 
been  doing?  What  has  happened?  Are  you 
ill?"  Thus  driven  into  a  direct  lie,  I  said  that 
the  sun  had  been  a  little  too  much  for  me.  It 
was  close  upon  five  o'clock  of  a  cloudy  April 
afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden  all 
day.  I  saw  my  mistake  as  soon  as  the  words 
were  out  of  my  mouth :  attempted  to  recover 
it;  blundered  hopelessly  and  followed  Kitty  in 
a  regal  rage,  out  of  doors,  amid  the  smiles  of 
my  acquaintances.  I  made  some  excuse  (I 
have  forgotten  what)  on  the  score  of  my  feel- 
ing faint ;  and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  leav- 
ing Kitty  to  finish  the  ride  by  herself. 

In  my  room  I  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to 
reason  out  the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theobald 
Jack  Pansay,  a  well-educated  Bengal  Civilian 
in  the  year  of  grace  1885,  presumably  sane, 
certainly  healthy,  driven  in  terror  from  my 
sweetheart's  side  by  the  apparition  of  a  woman 
who  had  been  dead  and  buried  eight  months 
ago.  These  were  facts  that  I  could  not  blink. 
Nothing  was  further  from  my  thought  than 
any  memory  of  Mrs.  Wessington  when  Kitty 
and   I   left   Hamilton's   shop.      Nothing   was 


THE  PHANTOM  'KICKSHAW        17 

more  utterly  commonplace  than  the  stretch  of 
wall  opposite  Peliti's.  It  was  broad  daylight. 
The  road  was  full  of  people;  and  yet  here,  look 
you,  in  defiance  of  every  law  of  probability,  in 
direct  outrage  of  Nature's  ordinance,  there  had 
appeared  to  me  a  face  from  the  grave. 

kitty's  Aral)  had  gone  through  the  'rick- 
shaw: SO  that  my  first  hope  thai  some  woman 
marvelously  like  Mrs.  Wessington  had  hired 
the  carriage  and  the  coolies  with  their  old 
livery  was  lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round 
this  treadmill  of  thought;  and  again  and  again 
gave  up  baffled  and  in  despair.  The  voice  was 
as  inexplicable  as  the  apparition.  I  had  ori- 
ginally some  wild  notion  of  confiding  it  all  to 
Kitty;  of  begging  her  to  marry  me  at  once; 
and  in  her  arms  defying  the  ghostly  occupant 
of  the  'rickshaw.  "After  all,"  I  argued,  "the 
presence  of  the  'rickshaw  is  in  itself  enough  to 
prove  the  existence  of  a  spectral  illusion.  One 
may  see  ghosts  of  men  and  women,  but  surely 
never  of  coolies  and  carriages.  The  whole 
thing  is  absurd.  Fancy  the  ghost  of  a 
hillman!" 

Next  morning  I  sent  a  penitent  note  to  Kitty, 
imploring  her  to  overlook  my  strange  conduct 
of  the  previous  afternoon.  My  Divinity  was 
still  very  wroth,  and  a  personal  apology  was 


18       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

necessary.  I  explained,  with  a  fluency  born  of 
night-long  pondering  over  a  falsehood,  that  I 
had  been  attacked  with  a  sudden  palpitation  of 
the  heart — the  result  of  indigestion.  This  emi- 
nently practical  solution  had  its  effect ;  and 
Kitty  and  I  rode  out  that  afternoon  with  the 
shadow  of  my  first  lie  dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter 
round  Jakko.  With  my  nerves  still  unstrung 
from  the  previous  night  I  feebly  protested 
against  the  notion,  suggesting  Observatory 
Hill,  Jutogh,  the  Boileaugunge  road — any- 
thing rather  than  the  Jakko  round.  Kitty  was 
angry  and  a  little  hurt :  so  I  yielded  from  fear 
of  provoking  further  misunderstanding,  and 
we  set  out  together  toward  Chota  Simla.  We 
walked  a  greater  part  of  the  way,  and,  accord- 
ing to  our  custom,  cantered  from  a  mile  or  so 
below  the  Convent  to  the  stretch  of  level  road 
by  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir.  The  wretched 
horses  appeared  to  fly,  and  my  heart  beat 
quicker  and  quicker  as  we  neared  the  crest  of 
the  ascent.  My  mind  had  been  full  of  Mrs. 
Wessington  all  the  afternoon;  and  every  inch 
of  the  Jakko  road  bore  witness  to  our  old-time 
walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders  were  full  of 
it;  the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead;  the  rain- 
fed  torrents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen  over 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        19 

the  shameful  story;  and  the  wind  in  my  cars 
chanted  the  iniquity  aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level 
men   call   the   Ladies'    Mile   the    Horror    was 
awaiting  me.     No  other  'rickshaw  was  in  sight 
— only  the  four  black  and  white  jhampanies, 
the   yellow-paneled   carriage,    and    the   golden 
head  of  the  woman  within — all  apparently  just 
as  I  had  left  them  eight  months  and  one  fort- 
night ago !    For  an  instant  I  fancied  that  Kitty 
must  see  what  I  saw — we  were  so  marvelously 
sympathetic  in  all  things.     Her  next  words  un- 
deceived  me — "Not   a  soul   in  sight!     Come 
along,  Jack,  and  I'll  race  you  to  the  Reservoir 
buildings !"     Her  wiry  little  Arab  was  off  like 
a  bird,  my  Waler  following  close  behind,  and 
in  this  order  we  dashed  under  the  cliffs.     Half 
a  minute  brought  us  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
'rickshaw.     I  pulled  my  Waler  and  fell  back  a 
little.    The  'rickshaw  was  directly  in  the  middle 
of  the  road ;  and  once  more  the  Arab  passed 
through  it,  my  horse  following.     "Jack!    Jack 
dear!     Please  forgive  me,"  rang  with  a  wail 
in  my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval : — "It's  all  a 
mistake,  a  hideous  mistake!" 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed. 
When  I  turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir 
wTorks,  the  black  and  white  liveries  were  still 


20       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

waiting — patiently  waiting — under  the  grey 
hillside,  and  the  wind  brought  me  a  mocking 
echo  of  the  words  I  had  just  heard.  Kitty 
bantered  me  a  good  deal  on  my  silence 
throughout  the  remainder  of  the  ride.  I  had 
been  talking  up  till  then  wildly  and  at  random. 
To  save  my  life  I  could  not  speak  afterward 
naturally,  and  from  Sanjowlie  to  the  Church 
wisely  held  my  tongue. 

I  was  to  dine  with  the  Mannerings  that 
night,  and  had  barely  time  to  canter  home  to 
dress.  On  the  road  to  Elysium  Hill  I  over- 
heard two  men  talking  together  in  the  dusk. — 
"It's  a  curious  thing,"  said  one,  "how  com- 
pletely all  trace  of  it  disappeared.  You  know 
my  wife  was  insanely  fond  of  the  woman 
(never  could  see  anything  in  her  myself),  and 
wanted  me  to  pick  up  her  old  'rickshaw  and 
coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for  love  or 
money.  Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it;  but 
I've  got  to  do  what  the  Memsahib  tells  me. 
Would  you  believe  that  the  man  she  hired  it 
from  tells  me  that  all  four  of  the  men — they 
were  brothers — died  of  cholera  on  the  way  to 
Hardwar,  poor  devils;  and  the  'rickshaw  has 
been  broken  up  by  the  man  himself.  'Told  me 
he  never  used  a  dead  Memsahib's  'rickshaw. 
'Spoiled  his  luck.     Queer  notion,  wasn't  it? 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        21 

Fancy  poor  little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling  any 
one's  luck  except  her  own!"  I  laughed  aloud 
at  this  point ;  and  my  laugh  jarred  on  me  as  I 
uttered  it.  So  there  were  ghosts  of  'rickshaws 
after  all,  and  ghostly  employments  in  the  other 
world !  How  much  did  Mrs.  Wessington  give 
her  men?  What  were  their  hours?  Where 
did  they  go  ? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question  I 
saw  the  infernal  Thing  blocking  my  path  in  the 
twilight.  The  dead  travel  fast,  and  by  short 
cuts  unknown  to  ordinary  coolies.  I  laughed 
aloud  a  second  time  and  checked  my  laughter 
suddenly,  for  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad. 
Mad  to  a  certain  extent  I  must  have  been,  for 
I  recollect  that  I  reined  in  my  horse  at  the  head 
of  the  'rickshaw,  and  politely  wished  Mrs. 
Wessington  "Good-evening."  Her  answer 
was  one  I  knew  only  too  well.  I  listened  to 
the  end;  and  replied  that  I  had  heard  it  all 
before,  but  should  be  delighted  if  she  had  any- 
thing further  to  say.  Some  malignant  devil 
stronger  than  I  must  have  entered  into  me  that 
evening,  for  I  have  a  dim  recollection  of  talk- 
ing the  commonplaces  of  the  day  for  five  min- 
utes to  the  thing  in  front  of  me. 

"Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil — or  drunk. 
Max,  try  and  get  him  to  come  home." 


22        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

Surely  that  was  not  Mrs.  Wessington's 
voice !  The  two  men  had  overheard  me  speak- 
ing to  the  empty  air,  and  had  returned  to  look 
after  me.  They  were  very  kind  and  consid- 
erate, and  from  their  words  evidently  gathered 
that  I  was  extremely  drunk.  I  thanked  them 
confusedly  and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel, 
there  changed,  and  arrived  at  the  Manner ings' 
ten  minutes  late.  I  pleaded  the  darkness  of  the 
night  as  an  excuse;  was  rebuked  by  Kitty  for 
my  unlover-like  tardiness;  and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  become  gen- 
eral; and  under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing 
some  tender  small  talk  to  my  sweetheart  when 
I  was  aware  that  at  the  further  end  of  the  table 
a  short  red-whiskered  man  was  describing, 
with  much  broidery,  his  encounter  with  a  mad 
unknown  that  evening. 

A  few  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was 
repeating  the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago.  In 
the  middle  of  the  story  he  looked  round 
for  applause,  as  professional  story-tellers  do, 
caught  my  eye,  and  straightway  collapsed. 
There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence,  and 
the  red-whiskered  man  muttered  something  to 
the  effect  that  he  had  "forgotten  the  rest," 
thereby  sacrificing  a  reputation  as  a  good  story- 
teller which  he  had  built  up  for  six  seasons 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        23 

past.  I  blessed  him  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  and — went  on  with  my  fish. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to 
an  end;  and  with  genuine  regret  I  tore  myself 
away  from  Kitty — as  certain  as  I  was  of  my 
own  existence  that  It  would  be  waiting  for  me 
outside  the  door.  The  red-whiskered  man, 
who  had  been  introduced  to  me  as  Doctor 
Heatherlegh  of  Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me 
company  as  far  as  our  roads  lay  together.  I 
accepted  his  offer  with  gratitude. 

My  instinct  had  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  in 
readiness  in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed 
devilish  mockery  of  our  ways,  with  a  lighted 
head-lamp.  The  red-whiskered  man  went  to 
the  point  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  showed  he 
had  been  thinking  over  it  all  dinner  time. 

"I  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the  mat- 
ter with  you  this  evening  on  the  Elysium 
road?"  The  suddenness  of  the  question 
wrenched  an  answer  from  me  before  I  was 
aware. 

"That!"  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

"That  may  be  either  D.  T.  or  Eyes  for  aught 
I  know.  Now  you  don't  liquor.  I  saw  as 
much  at  dinner,  so  it  can't  be  D.  T.  There's 
nothing  whatever  where  you're  pointing, 
though  you're  sweating   and   trembling  with 


24       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

fright  like  a  scared  pony.  Therefore,  I  con- 
clude that  it's  Eyes.  And  I  ought  to  under- 
stand all  about  them.  Come  along  home  with 
me.     I'm  on  the  Blessington  lower  road." 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw  instead 
of  waiting  for  us  kept  about  twenty  yards 
ahead — and  this,  too,  whether  we  walked, 
trotted,  or  cantered.  In  the  course  of  that 
long  night  ride  I  had  told  my  companion 
almost  as  much  as  I  have  told  you  here. 

"Well,  you've  spoiled  one  of  the  best  tales 
I've  ever  laid  tongue  to,"  said  he,  "but  I'll  for- 
give you  for  the  sake  of  what  you've  gone 
through.  Now  come  home  and  do  what  I  tell 
you ;  and  when  I've  cured  you,  young  man,  let 
this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear  of  women 
and  indigestible  food  till  the  day  of  your 
death." 

The  'rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front;  and  my 
red-whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great 
pleasure  from  my  account  of  its  exact  where- 
abouts. 

"Eyes,  Pansay — all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stom- 
ach. And  the  greatest  of  these  three  is 
Stomach.  You've  too  much  conceited  Brain, 
too  little  Stomach,  and  thoroughly  unhealthy 
Eyes.  Get  your  Stomach  straight  and  the  rest 
follows.    And  all  that's  French  for  a  liver  pill. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 


~o 


I'll  take  sole  medical  charge  of  you  from  this 
hour!    for  you're  too  interesting  a  phenomenon 

to  be  passed  over." 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Blessington  lower  road  and  tin-  'rickshaw 
came  to  a  dead  stop  under  a  pine-clad,  over- 
hanging shale  cliff.  Instinctively  1  halted  too, 
giving  my  reason.  Heatherlegh  rapped  out  an 
oath. 

"Now,  if  you  think  I'm  going-  to  spend  a  cold 
night  on  the  hillside  for  the  sake  of  a  Stomach- 
ciDii-Rra'm-cMm-TLye  illusion  .  .  .  Lord, 
ha'  mercy!     What's  that?" 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding 
smother  of  dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack, 
the  noise  of  rent  boughs,  and  about  ten  yards 
of  the  cliff-side — pines,  undergrowth,  and  all — • 
slid  down  into  the  road  below,  completely 
blocking  it  up.  The  uprooted  trees  swayed 
and  tottered  for  a  moment  like  drunken  giants 
in  the  gloom,  and  then  fell  prone  among  their 
fellows  with  a  thunderous  crash.  Our  two 
horses  stood  motionless  and  sweating  with 
fear.  As  soon  as  the  rattle  of  falling  earth  and 
stone  had  subsided,  my  companion  muttered  : — 
"Man,  if  we'd  gone  forward  we  should  have 
been  ten  feet  deep  in  ottr  graves  by  now. 
'There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth.' 


26       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

Come  home,  Pansay,  and  thank 
God.     I  want  a  peg  badly." 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge, 
and  I  arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh's  house 
shortly  after  midnight. 

His  attempts  toward  my  cure  commenced 
almost  immediately,  and  for  a  week  I  never  left 
his  sight.  Many  a  time  in  the  course  of  that 
week  did  I  bless  the  good-fortune  which  had 
thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla's  best  and 
kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my  spirits  grew 
lighter  and  more  equable.  Day  by  day,  too,  I 
became  more  and  more  inclined  to  fall  in  with 
Heatherlegh's  "spectral  illusion"  theory,  im- 
plicating eyes,  brain,  and  stomach.  I  wrote  to 
Kitty,  telling  her  that  a  slight  sprain  caused  by 
a  fall  from  my  horse  kept  me  indoors  for  a  few 
days ;  and  that  I  should  be  recovered  before  she 
had  time  to  regret  my  absence. 

Heatherlegh's  treatment  was  simple  to  a  de- 
gree. It  consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water 
baths,  and  strong  exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk  or 
at  early  dawn — for,  as  he  sagely  observed: — 
"A  man  with  a  sprained  ankle  doesn't  walk  a 
dozen  miles  a  day,  and  your  young  woman 
might  be  wondering  if  she  saw  you." 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  exami- 
nation of  pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        27 

as  to  diel  and  pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dis- 
missed me  as  brusquely  as  he  had  taken  charge 
of  me  Here  is  his  parting  benediction: — 
"Man,  I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and  that's 
as  much  as  to  say  I've  cured  most  of  your 
bodily  ailments.  Now,  gel  your  traps  out  of 
this  as  soon  as  yon  can;  and  be  <>ft  to  make  love 
to  Miss  Kilty." 

I  was  endeavoring  to  express  my  thanks  for 
his  kindness.    He  cnt  me  short. 

"Don't  think  T  did  this  hecanse  I  like  you.  I 
gather  that  you've  behaved  like  a  blackguard  all 
through.  But,  all  the  same,  you're  a  phenome- 
non, and  as  queer  a  phenomenon  as  you  are  a 
blackguard.  No !" — checking  me  a  second  time 
— "not  a  rupee  please.  Go  out  and  see  if  you 
can  find  the  eyes-brain-and-stomach  business 
again.  I'll  give  you  a  lakh  for  each  time  you 
see  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings' 
drawing-room  with  Kitty — drunk  with  the  in- 
toxication of  present  happiness  and  the  fore- 
knowledge that  I  should  never  more  be  troubled 
with  Its  hideous  presence.  Strong  in  the 
sense  of  my  new-found  security,  I  proposed  a 
ride  at  once ;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter  round 
Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with 


28       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

vitality  and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  I  did  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  30th  of  April.  Kitty  was 
delighted  at  the  change  in  my  appearance,  and 
complimented  me  on  it  in  her  delightfully  frank 
and  outspoken  manner.  We  left  the  Manner- 
ings'  house  together,  laughing  and  talking,  and 
cantered  along  the  Choto  Simla  road  as  of  old. 

I  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reser- 
voir and  there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure. 
The  horses  did  their  best,  but  seemed  all  too 
slow  to  my  impatient  mind.  Kitty  was  aston- 
ished at  my  boisterousness.  "Why,  Jack!" 
she  cried  at  last,  "you  are  behaving  like  a  child. 
What  are  you  doing?" 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from 
sheer  wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler 
plunge  and  curvet  across  the  road  as  I  tickled  it 
with  the  loop  of  my  riding-whip. 

"Doing?"     I     answered;     "nothing,     dear. 
That's  just  it.     If  you'd  been  doing  nothing 
for  a  week  except  lie  up,  you'd  be  as  riotous 
as  I. 
"  'Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive; 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five.'  " 

My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips 


THE  PHANTOM  'KICKSHAW        29 

before  we  had  rounded  the  corner  above  the 
Convent;  and  a  few  yards  further  on  could  see 
across  to  Sanjowlie.  In  the  centre  of  the  level 
road  stood  the  black  and  white  liveries,  the 
yellow-paneled  'rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  ECeith-Wes- 
sington.  I  pulled  up,  looked,  rubbed  my  eyes, 
and,  I  believe,  must  have  said  something.  The 
next  thing  I  knew  was  that  I  was  lying  face 
downward  on  the  road,  with  Kitty  kneeling 
above  me  in  tears. 

"Has  it  gone,  child !"  I  gasped.  Kitty  only 
wept  more  bitterly. 

"Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear?  what  does  it  all 
mean?  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere, 
Jack.  A  hideous  mistake."  Her  last  words 
brought  me  to  my  feet — mad — raving  for  the 
time  being. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,"  I  re- 
peated, "a  hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look  at 
It." 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged  Kitty 
by  the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where  Tt 
stood,  and  implored  her  for  pity's  sake  to  speak 
to  It;  to  tell  It  that  we  were  betrothed;  that 
neither  Death  nor  Hell  could  break  the  tie  be- 
tween us:  and  Kitty  only  knows  how  much 
more  to  the  same  effect.  Now  and  again  I 
appealed  passionately  to  the  Terror  in  the  'rick- 


30        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

shaw  to  bear  witness  to  all  I  had  said,  and  to 
release  me  from  a  torture  that  was  killing  me. 
As  I  talked  I  suppose  I  must  have  told  Kitty 
of  my  old  relations  with  Mrs.  Wessington,  for 
I  saw  her  listen  intently  with  white  face  and 
blazing  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Pansay,"  she  said,  "that's 
quite  enough.     Syce  ghora  lao." 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always  are, 
had  come  up  with  recaptured  horses;  and  as 
Kitty  sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught  hold  of 
the  bridle,  entreating  her  to  hear  me  out  and 
forgive.  My  answer  was  the  cut  of  her  riding- 
whip  across  my  face  from  mouth  to  eye,  and  a 
word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even  now  I  cannot 
write  down.  So  I  judged,  and  judged  rightly, 
that  Kitty  knew  all;  and  I  staggered  back  to 
the  side  of  the  'rickshaw.  My  face  was  cut  and 
bleeding,  and  the  blow  of  the  riding-whip  had 
raised  a  livid  blue  wheal  on  it.  I  had  no  self- 
respect.  Just  then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must 
have  been  following  Kitty  and  me  at  a  distance, 
cantered  up. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face,  "here's 
Miss  Mannering's  signature  to  my  order  of 
dismissal  and  .  .  .  I'll  thank  you  for 
that  lakh  as  soon  as  convenient." 

Heatherlegh's  face,  even  in  my  abject 
misery,  moved  me  to  laughter. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        31 

"I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation" — he 

began.  "Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  whispered.  "I've 
lost  my  life's  happiness  and  you'd  better  take 
me  home." 

As  I  spoke  the  'rickshaw  was  gone.  Then  I 
lost  all  knowledge  of  what  was  passing.  The 
crest  of  Jakko  seemed  to  heave  and  roll  like  the 
crest  of  a  cloud  and  fall  in  upon  me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  7th  of  May,  that  is 
to  say)  I  was  aware  that  I  was  lying  in 
Heatherlegh's  room  as  weak  as  a  little  child. 
Heatherlegh  was  watching  me  intently  from 
behind  the  papers  on  his  writing-table.  His 
first  words  were  not  encouraging;  but  I  was 
too  far  spent  to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

"Here's  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your 
letters.  You  corresponded  a  good  deal,  you 
young  people.  Here's  a  packet  that  looks  like  a 
ring,  and  a  cheerful  sort  of  a  note  from  Man- 
nering  Papa,  which  I've  taken  the  liberty  of 
reading  and  burning.  The  old  gentleman's  not 
pleased  with  you." 

"And  Kitty?"  I  asked,  dully. 

"Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father,  from 
what  she  says.  By  the  same  token  you  must 
have  been  letting  out  any  number  of  queer 
reminiscences  just  before  I  met  you.  'Says 
that   a  man  who  would   have  behaved   to  a 


32        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

woman  as  you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought  to 
kill  himself  out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind. 
She's  a  hot-headed  little  virago,  your  mash. 
'Will  have  it  too  that  you  were  suffering  from 
D.  T.  when  that  row  on  the  Jakko  road  turned 
up.  'Says  she'll  die  before  she  ever  speaks  to 
you  again." 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

"Now  you've  got  your  choice,  my  friend. 
This  engagement  has  to  be  broken  off ;  and  the 
Mannerings  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you. 
Was  it  broken  through  D.  T.  or  epileptic  fits? 
Sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a  better  exchange  unless 
you'd  prefer  hereditary  insanity.  Say  the  word 
and  I'll  tell  'em  it's  fits.  All  Simla  knows  about 
that  scene  on  the  Ladies'  Mile.  Come!  I'll 
give  you  five  minutes  to  think  it  over." 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I  ex- 
plored thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the  In- 
ferno which  it  is  permitted  man  to  tread  on 
earth.  And  at  the  same  time  I  myself  was 
watching  myself  faltering  through  the  dark 
labyrinths  of  doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair. 
I  wondered,  as  Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might 
have  wondered,  which  dreadful  alternative  I 
should  adopt.  Presently  I  heard  myself  an- 
swering in  a  voice  that  I  hardly  recognized, — 

"They're     confoundedly     particular     about 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW       33 

morality  in  these  parts.  Give  'em  fits,  Heather- 
legh,  and  my  love.  Now  let  me  sleep  a  bit 
longer." 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only  I 
(half  crazed,  devil-driven  I )  that  tossed  in  my 
bed,  tracing  step  by  step  the  history  of  the  past 
1111  »iith. 

"But  I  am  in  Simla,"  I  kept  repeating  to  my- 
self. "I,  Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and  there 
are  no  ghosts  here.  It's  unreasonable  of  that 
woman  to  pretend  there  are.  Why  couldn't 
Agnes  have  left  me  alone?  I  never  did  her 
any  harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  me 
as  Agnes.  Only  I'd  never  have  come  back  on 
purpose  to  kill  her.  Why  can't  I  be  left  alone 
— left  alone  and  happy?" 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke:  and 
the  sun  was  low  in  the  sky  before  I  slept — 
slept  as  the  tortured  criminal  sleeps  on  his  rack, 
too  worn  to  feel  further  pain. 

Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed. 
Heatherlegh  told  me  in  the  morning  that  he 
had  received  an  answer  from  Mr.  Manncring, 
and  that,  thanks  to  his  ( Heatherlegh  V) 
friendly  offices,  the  story  of  my  affliction  had 
traveled  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Simla,  where  I  was  on  all  sides  much  pitied. 

"And  that's  rather  more  than  you  deserve," 


34       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

he  concluded,  pleasantly,  "though  the  Lord 
knows  you've  been  going  through  a  pretty 
severe  mill.  Never  mind;  we'll  cure  you  yet, 
you  perverse  phenomenon." 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  "You've  been 
much  too  good  to  me  already,  old  man,"  said  I ; 
"but  I  don't  think  I  need  trouble  you  further." 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heather- 
legh  could  do  would  lighten  the  burden  that 
had  been  laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of 
hopeless,  impotent  rebellion  against  the  unrea- 
sonableness of  it  all.  There  were  scores  of 
men  no  better  than  I  whose  punishments  had 
at  least  been  reserved  for  another  world ;  and  I 
felt  that  it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair  that  I 
alone  should  have  been  singled  out  for  so  hide- 
ous a  fate.  This  mood  would  in  time  give 
place  to  another  where  it  seemed  that  the  'rick- 
shaw and  I  were  the  only  realities  in  a  world 
of  shadows ;  that  Kitty  was  a  ghost ;  that 
Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the  other 
men  and  women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts;  and 
the  great,  grey  hills  themselves  but  vain 
shadows  devised  to  torture  me.  From  mood 
to  mood  I  tossed  backward  and  forward  for 
seven  weary  days;  my  body  growing  daily 
stronger  and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  look- 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW       35 

ing-glass  told  me  that  T  had  returned  to  every- 
day life,  and  was  as  other  men  once  more. 
Curiously  enough  my  face  showed  no  signs  of 
the  struggle  I  had  gone  through.  It  was  pale 
indeed,  but  as  expressionless  and  commonplace 
as  ever.  I  had  expected  some  permanent  alter- 
ation— visible  evidence  of  the  disease  that  was 
eating  me  away.    I  found  nothing. 

On  the  15th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh's 
house  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and 
the  instinct  of  the  bachelor  drove  me  to  the 
Club.  There  I  found  that  every  man  knew  my 
story  as  told  by  Heatherlegh,  and  was,  in 
clumsy  fashion,  abnormally  kind  and  attentive. 
Nevertheless  I  recognized  that  for  the  rest  of 
my  natural  life  I  should  be  among  but  not  of 
my  fellows;  and  I  envied  very  bitterly  indeed 
the  laughing  coolies  on  the  Mall  below.  I 
lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  four  o'clock  wan- 
dered aimlessly  down  the  Mall  in  the  vague 
hope  of  meeting  Kitty.  Close  to  the  Band- 
stand the  black  and  white  liveries  joined  me; 
and  I  heard  Mrs.  Wessington's  old  appeal  at 
my  side.  I  had  been  expecting  this  ever  since 
I  came  out;  and  was  only  surprised  at  her  de- 
lay. The  phantom  'rickshaw  and  I  went  side 
by  side  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  in  silence. 
Close  to  the  bazar,  Kitty  and  a  man  on  horse- 


36        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

back  overtook  and  passed  us.  For  any  sign 
she  gave  I  might  have  been  a  dog  in  the  road. 
She  did  not  even  pay  me  the  compliment  of 
quickening  her  pace;  though  the  rainy  after- 
noon had  served  for  an  excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my 
ghostly  Light-o'-Love,  crept  round  Jakko  in 
couples.  The  road  was  streaming  with  water ; 
the  pines  dripped  like  roof-pipes  on  the  rocks 
below,  and  the  air  was  full  of  fine,  driving  rain. 
Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself  saying  to 
myself  almost  aloud:  "I'm  Jack  Pansay  on 
leave  at  Simla — at  Simla!  Everyday,  ordinary 
Simla.  I  mustn't  forget  that — I  mustn't  for- 
get that."  Then  I  would  try  to  recollect  some 
of  the  gossip  I  had  heard  at  the  Club :  the 
prices  of  So-and-So's  horses — anything,  in 
fact,  that  related  to  the  workaday  Anglo- 
Indian  world  I  knew  so  well.  I  even  repeated 
the  multiplication-table  rapidly  to  myself,  to 
make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  taking  leave 
of  my  senses.  It  gave  me  much  comfort ;  and 
must  have  prevented  my  hearing  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  I  wearily  climbed  the  Convent 
slope  and  entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty 
and  the  man  started  off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  Mrs.   Wessington.     "Agnes," 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW        37 

said  I,  "will  yon  put  back  your  hood  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  means?"  The  hood  dropped 
noiselessly,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  my 
dead  and  buried  mistress.  She  was  wearing 
the  dress  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive; 
carried  the  same  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right 
hand;  and  the  same  cardcase  in  her  left.  (A 
woman  eight  months  dead  with  a  cardcase!) 
I  had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone 
parapet  of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that 
at  least  was  real. 

"Agnes,"  I  repeated,  "for  pity's  sake  tell  me 
what  it  all  means."  Mrs.  Wessington  leaned 
forward,  with  that  odd,  quick  turn  of  the  head 
I  used  to  know  so  well,  and  spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  over- 
leaped the  bounds  of  all  human  belief  I  should 
apologize  to  you  now.  As  I  know  that  no  one 
— no,  not  even  Kitty,  for  whom  it  is  written  as 
some  sort  of  justification  of  my  conduct — will 
believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Airs.  Wessington 
spoke  and  I  walked  with  her  from  the  San- 
jowlie  road  to  the  turning  below  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief's house  as  I  might  walk  by 
the  side  of  any  living  woman's  'rickshaw,  deep 
in  conversation.  The  second  and  most  tor- 
menting of  my  moods  of  sickness  had  suddenly 


38        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

laid  hold  upon  me,  and  like  the  Prince  in 
Tennyson's  poem,  "I  seemed  to  move  amid  a 
world  of  ghosts."  There  had  been  a  garden- 
party  at  the  Commander-in-Chief's,  and  we 
two  joined  the  crowd  of  homeward-bound  folk. 
As  I  saw  them  then  it  seemed  that  they  were 
the  shadows — impalpable,  fantastic  shadows — 
that  divided  for  Mrs.  Wessington's  'rickshaw 
to  pass  through.  What  we  said  during  the 
course  of  that  weird  interview  I  cannot — in- 
deed, dare  not — tell.  Heatherlegh's  comment 
would  have  been  a  short  laugh  and  a  remark 
that  I  had  been  "mashing  a  brain-eye-and- 
stomach  chimera."  It  was  a  ghastly  and  yet 
in  some  indefinable  way  a  marvelously  dear 
experience.  Could  it  be  possible,  I  wondered, 
that  I  was  in  this  life  to  woo  a  second  time  the 
woman  I  had  killed  by  my  own  neglect  and 
cruelty  ? 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a 
shadow  among  shadows. 

If  I  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the 
next  fortnight  in  their  order,  my  story  would 
never  come  to  an  end ;  and  your  patience  would 
be  exhausted.  Morning  after  morning  and 
evening  after  evening  the  ghostly  'rickshaw 
and  I  used  to  wander  through  Simla  together. 
Wherever  I   went,  there  the   four  black  and 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW       39 

white  liveries  followed  me  and  bore  me  com- 
pany to  and  from  my  hotel.  At  the  Theatre  I 
found  them  amid  the  crowd  of  yelling  jliam- 
panies;  outside  the  Club  veranda,  after  a  long 
evening  of  whist ;  at  the  Birthday  Ball,  wailing 
patiently  for  my  reappearance;  and  in  broad 
daylight  when  I  went  calling.  Save  that  it 
cast  no  shadow,  the  'rickshaw  was  in  every 
respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as  one  of  wood  and 
iron.  More  than  once,  indeed,  I  have  had  to 
check  myself  from  warning  some  hard-riding 
friend  against  cantering  over  it.  More  than 
once  I  have  walked  down  the  Mall  deep  in 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Wessington  to  the  un- 
speakable amazement  of  the  passers-by. 

Before  I  had  been  out  and  about  a  week  I 
learned  that  the  "fit"  theory  had  been  discarded 
in  favor  of  insanity.  However,  I  made  no 
change  in  my  mode  of  life.  I  called,  rode,  and 
dined  out  as  freely  as  ever.  I  had  a  passion 
for  the  society  of  my  kind  which  I  had  never 
felt  before;  I  hungered  to  be  among  the 
realities  of  life;  and  at  the  same  time  I  felt 
vaguely  unhappy  when  I  had  been  separated 
too  long  from  my  ghostly  companion.  It 
would  be  almost  impossible  to  describe  my 
varying  moods  from  the  15th  of  May  up  to 
to-day. 


40       THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

The  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  filled  me  by 
turns  with  horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of 
pleasure,  and  utter  despair.  I  dared  not  leave 
Simla;  and  I  knew  that  my  stay  there  was 
killing  me.  I  knew,  moreover,  that  it  was  my 
destiny  to  die  slowly  and  a  little  every  day. 
My  only  anxiety  was  to  get  the  penance  over 
as  quietly  as  might  be.  Alternately  I  hungered 
for  a  sight  of  Kitty  and  watched  her  out- 
rageous flirtations  with  my  successor — to 
speak  more  accurately,  my  successors — with 
amused  interest.  She  was  as  much  out  of  my 
life  as  I  was  out  of  hers.  By  day  I  wandered 
with  Mrs.  Wessington  almost  content.  By 
night  I  implored  Heaven  to  let  me  return  to 
the  world  as  I  used  to  know  it.  Above  all 
these  varying  moods  lay  the  sensation  of  dull, 
numbing  wonder  that  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen 
should  mingle  so  strangely  on  this  earth  to 
hound  one  poor  soul  to  its  grave. 


August  27. — Heatherlegh  has  been  inde- 
fatigable in  his  attendance  on  me;  and  only 
yesterday  told  me  that  I  ought  to  send  in  an 
application  for  sick  leave.  An  application  to 
escape  the  company  of  a  phantom !  A  request 
that  the  Government  would  graciously  permit 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW       41 

me  to  get  rid  of  five  ghosts  and  an  airy  'rick- 
shaw by  going  to  England !  Heatherlegh's 
proposition  moved  me  to  almost  hysterical 
laughter.  I  told  him  that  I  should  await  the 
end  quietly  at  Simla;  and  I  am  sure  that  the 
end  is  not  far  off.  Believe  me  that  I  dread  its 
advent  more  than  any  word  can  say;  and  I 
torture  myself  nightly  with  a  thousand  specu- 
lations as  to  the  manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  I  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an 
English  gentleman  should  die;  or,  in  one  last 
walk  on  the  Mall,  will  my  soul  be  wrenched 
from  me  to  take  its  place  forever  and  ever  by 
the  side  of  that  ghastly  phantasm?  Shall  I 
return  to  my  old  lost  allegiance  in  the  next 
world,  or  shall  I  meet  Agnes  loathing  her  and 
bound  to  her  side  through  all  eternity?  Shall 
we  two  hover  over  the  scene  of  our  lives  till  the 
end  of  Time?  As  the  day  of  my  death  draws 
nearer,  the  intense  horror  that  all  living  flesh 
feels  toward  escaped  spirits  from  beyond  the 
grave  grows  more  and  more  powerful.  It  is 
an  awful  thing  to  go  down  quick  among  the 
dead  with  scarcely  one-half  of  your  life  com- 
pleted. It  is  a  thousand  times  more  awful  to 
wait  as  I  do  in  your  midst,  for  I  know  not 
what  unimaginable  terror.  Pity  me,  at  least 
on  the  score  of  my  "delusion,"  for  I  know  you 


42        THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

will  never  believe  what  I  have  written  here. 
Yet  as  surely  as  ever  a  man  was  done  to  death 
by  the  Powers  of  Darkness  I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as 
ever  woman  was  killed  by  man,  I  killed  Mrs. 
Wessington.  And  the  last  portion  of  my  pun- 
ishment is  even  now  upon  me. 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 

As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was — 
As  I  came  through  the  Desert. 

— The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  Other  World,  where 
there  are  books  and  pictures  and  plays 
and  shop-windows  to  look  at,  and  thousands 
of  men  who  spend  their  lives  in  building  up  all 
four,  lives  a  gentleman  who  writes  real  stories 
about  the  real  insides  of  people;  and  his  name 
is  Mr.  Walter  Besant.  But  he  will  insist  upon 
treating  his  ghosts — he  has  published  half  a 
workshopful  of  them — with  levity.  He  makes 
his  ghost-seers  talk  familiarly,  and,  in  some 
cases,  flirt  outrageously,  with  the  phantoms. 
You  may  treat  anything,  from  a  Viceroy  to  a 
Vernacular  Paper,  with  levity;  but  you  must 
behave  reverently  toward  a  ghost,  and  particu- 
larly an  Indian  one. 

There  are,  in  this  land,  ghosts  who  take  the 
form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby  corpses,  and  hide  in 
trees  near  the  roadside  till  a  traveler  passes. 
Then  they  drop  upon  his  neck  and  remain. 
There  are  also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who 
45 


46  MY  OWN  TRUE 

have  died  in  child-bed.  These  wander  along 
the  pathways  at  dusk,  or  hide  in  the  crops  near 
a  village,  and  call  seductively.  But  to  answer 
their  call  is  death  in  this  world  and  the  next. 
Their  feet  are  turned  backward  that  all  sober 
men  may  recognize  them.  There  are  ghosts 
of  little  children  who  have  been  thrown  into 
wells.  These  haunt  well-curbs  and  the  fringes 
of  jungles,  and  wail  under  the  stars,  or  catch 
women  by  the  wrist  and  beg  to  be  taken  up 
and  carried.  These  and  the  corpse-ghosts, 
however,  are  only  vernacular  articles  and  do 
not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost  has  yet 
been  authentically  reported  to  have  frightened 
an  Englishman ;  but  many  English  ghosts  have 
scared  the  life  out  of  both  white  and  black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost. 
There  are  said  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  count- 
ing the  woman  who  blows  the  bellows  at  Syree 
dak-bungalow  on  the  Old  Road:  Mnssoorie 
has  a  house  haunted  of  a  very  lively  Thing ;  a 
White  Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watchman 
round  a  house  in  £ahore ;  Dalhousie  says  that 
one  of  her  houses  "repeats"  on  autumn  even- 
ings all  the  incidents  of  a  horrible  horse-and- 
precipice  accident :  Murree  has  a  merry  ghost, 
and,  now  that  she  has  been  swept  by  cholera, 
will  have  room  for  a  sorrowful  one ;  there  are 


GHOST  STORY  47 

Officers'  Quarters  in  Mian  Mir  whose  doors 
open  without  reason,  and  whose  furniture  is 
guaranteed  to  creak,  not  with  the  heat  of  June 
but  with  the  weight  of  Invisibles  who  come  to 
lounge  in  the  chair ;  Peshawur  possesses  houses 
that  none  will  willingly  rent ;  and  there  is  some- 
thing— not  fever — wrong  with  a  big  bungalow 
in  Allahabad.  The  older  Provinces  simply 
bristle  with  haunted  houses,  and  march  phan- 
tom armies  along  their  main  thoroughfares. 

Some  of  the  dak-bungalows  on  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road  have  handy  little  cemeteries  in 
their  compound — witnesses  to  the  "changes 
and  chances  of  this  mortal  life"  in  the  days 
when  men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the  North- 
west. These  bungalows  are  objectionable 
places  to  put  up  in.  They  are  generally  very 
old,  always  dirty,  while  the  khansamah  is  as 
ancient  as  the  bungalow.  He  either  chatters 
senilely,  or  falls  into  the  long  trances  of  age. 
In  both  moods  he  is  useless.  If  you  get  angry 
with  him,  he  refers  to  some  Sahib  dead  and 
buried  these  thirty  years,  and  says  that  when 
he  was  in  that  Sahib's  service  not  a  khansamah 
in  the  Province  could  touch  him.  Then  he 
jabbers  and  mows  and  trembles  and  fidgets 
among  the  dishes,  and  you  repent  of  your 
irritation. 


48  MY  OWN  TRUE 

In  these  dak-bungalows,  ghosts  are  most 
likely  to  be  found,  and  when  found,  they 
should  be  made  a  note  of.  Not  long  ago  it  was 
my  business  to  live  in  dak-bungalows.  I  never 
inhabited  the  same  house  for  three  nights  run- 
ning, and  grew  to  be  learned  in  the  breed.  I 
lived  in  Government-built  ones  with  red  brick 
walls  and  rail  ceilings,  an  inventory  of  the 
furniture  posted  in  every  room,  and  an  excited 
snake  at  the  threshold  to  give  welcome.  I  lived 
in  "converted"  ones — old  houses  officiating  as 
dak-bungalows — where  nothing  was  in  its 
proper  place  and  there  wasn't  even  a  fowl  for 
dinner.  I  lived  in  second-hand  palaces  where 
the  wind  blew  through  open-work  marble 
tracery  just  as  uncomfortably  as  through  a 
broken  pane.  I  lived  in  dak-bungalows  where 
the  last  entry  in  the  visitors'  book  was  fifteen 
months  old,  and  where  they  slashed  off  the 
curry-kid's  head  with  a  sword.  It  was  my 
good-luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of  men,  from  sober 
traveling  missionaries  and  deserters  flying 
from  British  Regiments,  to  drunken  loafers 
who  threw  whiskey  bottles  at  all  who  passed; 
and  my  still  greater  good-fortune  just  to  escape 
a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a  fair  proportion 
of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  out  here  acted  itself 
in  dak-bungalows,  I  wondered  that  I  had  met 


GHOST  STORY  49 

no  ghosts.  A  ghost  that  would  voluntarily 
hang  about  a  dak-bungalow  would  be  mad  of 
course;  but  so  many  men  have  died  mad  in 
dak-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a  fair  per- 
centage of  lunatic  ghosts. 

In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts 
rather,  for  there  were  two  of  them.  Up  till 
that  hour  I  had  sympathized  with  Mr.  Besant's 
method  of  handling  them,  as  shown  in  uThe 
Strange  Case  of  Mr.  Lucraft  and  other 
Stories."    I  am  now  in  the  Opposition. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak- 
bungalow.  But  that  was  the  smallest  part  of 
the  horror.  A  man  with  a  sensitive  hide  has 
no  right  to  sleep  in  dak-bungalows.  He  should 
marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was  old  and 
rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor  was  of  worn 
brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and  the  windows 
were  nearly  black  with  grime.  It  stood  on  a 
by-path  largely  used  by  native  Sub-Deputy 
Assistants  of  all  kinds,  from  Finance  to 
Forests ;  but  real  Sahibs  were  rare.  The 
khansamah,  who  was  nearly  bent  double  with 
age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided 
rain  on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by  a 
restless  wind,  and  every  gust  made  a  noise  like 
the  rattling  of  dry  bones  in  the  stiff  toddy- 


50  MY  OWN  TRUE 

palms  outside.  The  khansamah  completely  lost 
his  head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served  a  Sahib 
once.  Did  I  know  that  Sahib?  He  gave  me 
the  name  of  a  well-known  man  who  had  been 
buried  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
and  showed  me  an  ancient  daguerreotype  of 
that  man  in  his  prehistoric  youth.  I  had  seen 
a  steel  engraving  of  him  at  the  head  of  a 
double  volume  of  Memoirs  a  month  before,  and 
I  felt  ancient  beyond  telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  khansamah  went  to 
get  me  food.  He  did  not  go  through  the  pre- 
tence of  calling  it  "khana" — man's  victuals. 
He  said  "ratub"  and  that  means,  among  other 
things,  "grub" — dog's  rations.  There  was  no 
insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term.  He  had  for- 
gotten the  other  word,  I  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of 
animals,  I  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring 
the  dak-bungalow.  There  were  three  rooms, 
beside  my  own,  which  was  a  corner  kennel, 
each  giving  into  the  other  through  dingy  white 
doors  fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The 
bungalow  was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  parti- 
tion-walls of  the  rooms  were  almost  jerry-built 
in  their  flimsiness.  Every  step  or  bang  of  a 
trunk  echoed  from  my  room  down  the  other 
three,  and  every  footfall  came  back  tremulously 


GHOST  STORY  51 

from  the  far  walls.  For  this  reason  I  shut  the 
door.  There  were  no  lamps — only  candles  in 
long  glass  shades.  An  oil  wick  was  set  in  the 
bath-room. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak- 
bungalow  was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  I  had 
ever  set  foot  in.  There  was  no  fireplace,  and 
the  windows  would  not  open;  so  a  brazier  of 
charcoal  would  have  been  useless.  The  rain 
and  the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and  moaned 
round  the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms  rattled 
and  roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals  went 
through  the  compound  singing,  and  a  hyena 
stood  afar  off  and  mocked  them.  A  hyena 
would  convince  a  Sadducee  of  the  Resurrection 
of  the  Dead — the  worst  sort  of  Dead.  Then 
came  the  ratub — a  curious  meal,  half  native 
and  half  English  in  composition — with  the  old 
khansamah  babbling  behind  my  chair  about 
dead  and  gone  English  people,  and  the  wind- 
blown candles  playing  shadow-bo-peep  with 
the  bed  and  the  mosquito-curtains.  It  was 
just  the  sort  of  dinner  and  evening  to  make  a 
man  think  of  every  single  one  of  his  past  sins, 
and  of  all  the  others  that  he  intended  to  com- 
mit if  he  lived. 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not 
easy.     The  lamp  in  the  bath-room  threw  the 


52  MY  OWN  TRUE 

most  absurd  shadows  into  the  room,  and  the 
wind  was  beginning  to  talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with 
blood-sucking  I  heard  the  regular — "Let-us- 
take-and-heave-him-over"  grunt  of  doolie- 
bearers  in  the  compound.  First  one  doolie 
came  in,  then  a  second,  and  then  a  third.  I 
heard  the  doolies  dumped  on  the  ground,  and 
the  shutter  in  front  of  my  door  shook.  "That's 
some  one  trying  to  come  in,"  I  said.  But  no 
one  spoke,  and  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was 
the  gusty  wind.  The  shutter  of  the  room  next 
to  mine  was  attacked,  flung  back,  and  the  inner 
door  opened.  "That's  some  Sub-Deputy  As- 
sistant," I  said,  "and  he  has  brought  his 
friends  with  him.  Now  they'll  talk  and  spit 
and  smoke  for  an  hour." 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps. 
No  one  was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next 
room.  The  door  shut,  and  I  thanked  Provi- 
dence that  I  was  to  be  left  in  peace.  But  I  was 
curious  to  know  where  the  doolies  had  gone.  I 
got  out  of  bed  and  looked  into  the  darkness. 
There  was  never  a  sign  of  a  doolie.  Just  as  I 
was  getting  into  bed  again,  I  heard,  in  the 
next  room,  the  sound  that  no  man  in  his  senses 
can  possibly  mistake — the  whir  of  a  billiard 
ball  down  the  length  of  the  slates  when  the 


GHOST  STORY  53 

striker  is  stringing  for  break.  No  other  sound 
is  like  it.  A  minute  afterward  there  was  an- 
other whir,  and  I  got  into  bed.  I  was  not 
frightened — indeed  I  was  not.  I  was  very 
curious  to  know  what  had  become  of  the 
doolies.     I  jumped  into  bed  for  that  reason. 

Next  minute  I  heard  the  double  click  of  a 
cannon  and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
say  that  hair  stands  up.  The  skin  of  the  head 
tightens  and  you  can  feel  a  faint,  prickly 
bristling  all  over  the  scalp.  That  is  the  hair 
sitting  up.  There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and 
both  sounds  could  only  have  been  made  by  one 
thing — a  billiard  ball.  I  argued  the  matter  out 
at  great  length  with  myself;  and  the  more  I 
argued  the  less  probable  it  seemed  that  one  bed, 
one  table,  and  two  chairs — all  the  furniture  of 
the  room  next  to  mine — could  so  exactly  dupli- 
cate the  sounds  of  a  game  of  billiards.  After 
another  cannon,  a  three-cushion  one  to  judge 
by  the  whir,  I  argued  no  more.  I  had  found 
my  ghost  and  would  have  given  worlds  to  have 
escaped  from  that  dak-bungalow.  I  listened, 
and  with  each  listen  the  game  grew  clearer. 
There  was  whir  on  whir  and  click  on  click. 
Sometimes  there  was  a  double  click  and  a  whir 
and  another  click.  Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt, 
people  were  playing  billiards  in  the  next  room. 


54  MY  OWN  TRUE 

And  the  next  room  was  not  big  enough  to  hold 
a  billiard  table! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  I  heard  the 
game  go  forward — stroke  after  stroke.  I  tried 
to  believe  that  I  could  not  hear  voices ;  but  that 
attempt  was  a  failure. 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is?  Not  ordinary- 
fear  of  insult,  injury  or  death,  but  abject, 
quivering  dread  of  something  that  you  cannot 
see — fear  that  dries  the  inside  of  the  mouth 
and  half  of  the  throat — fear  that  makes  you 
sweat  on  the  palms  of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in 
order  to  keep  the  uvula  at  work?  This  is  a 
fine  Fear — a  great  cowardice,  and  must  be  felt 
to  be  appreciated.  The  very  improbability  of 
billiards  in  a  dak-bungalow  proved  the  reality 
of  the  thing.  No  man — drunk  or  sober — could 
imagine  a  game  at  billiards,  or  invent  the  spit- 
ting crack  of  a  "screw-cannon." 

A  severe  course  of  dak-bungalows  has  this 
disadvantage — it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If 
a  man  said  to  a  confirmed  dak-bungalow- 
haunter  : — "There  is  a  corpse  in  the  next  room, 
and  there's  a  mad  girl  in  the  next  but  one,  and 
the  woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have  just 
eloped  from  a  place  sixty  miles  away,"  the 
hearer  would  not  disbelieve  because  he  would 
know  that  nothing  is  too  wild,  grotesque,  or 
horrible  to  happen  in  a  dak-bungalow. 


GHOST  STORY  55 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to 
ghosts.  A  rational  person  fresh  from  his  own 
house  would  have  turned  on  his  side  and  slept. 
I  did  not.  So  surely  as  I  was  given  up  as  a 
bad  carcass  by  the  scores  of  things  in  the  bed 
because  the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my  heart, 
so  surely  did  I  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long 
game  at  billiards  played  in  the  echoing  room 
behind  the  iron-barred  door.  My  dominant 
fear  was  that  the  players  might  want  a  marker. 
It  was  an  absurd  fear;  because  creatures  who 
could  play  in  the  dark  would  be  above  such 
superfluities.  I  only  know  that  that  was  my 
terror;  and  it  was  real. 

After  a  long  while,  the  game  stopped,  and 
the  door  banged.  I  slept  because  I  was  dead 
tired.  Otherwise  I  should  have  preferred  to 
have  kept  awake.  Not  for  everything  in  Asia 
would  I  have  dropped  the  door-bar  and  peered 
into  the  dark  of  the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that  I 
had  done  well  and  wisely,  and  inquired  for  the 
means  of  departure. 

"By  the  way,  khansamah"  I  said,  "what 
were  those  three  doolies  doing  in  my  compound 
in  the  night?" 

"There  were  no  doolies,"  said  the  khan- 
samah. 


56  MY  OWN  TRUE 

I  went  into  the  next  room  and  the  daylight 
streamed  through  the  open  door.  I  was  im- 
mensely brave.  I  would,  at  that  hour,  have 
played  Black  Pool  with  the  owner  of  the  big 
Black  Pool  down  below. 

"Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bunga- 
low?"   I  asked. 

"No,"  said  the  khansamah.  "Ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  I  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a 
billiard-room." 

"A  how  much?" 

"A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built 
the  Railway.  I  was  khansamah  then  in  the  big 
house  where  all  the  Railway-Sahibs  lived,  and 
I  used  to  come  across  with  brandy-shrab. 
These  three  rooms  were  all  one,  and  they  held 
a  big  table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played  every 
evening.  But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now, 
and  the  Railway  runs,  you  say,  nearly  to 
Kabul." 

"Do  you  remember  anything  about  the 
Sahibs?" 

"It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one 
Sahib,  a  fat  man  and  always  angry,  was  play- 
ing here  one  night,  and  he  said  to  me : — 
'Mangal  Khan,  brandy-/>am'  do'  and  I  filled 
the  glass,  and  he  bent  over  the  table  to  strike, 
and  his  head  fell  lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the 


GHOST  STORY  57 

table,  and  his  spectacles  came  off,  and  when  we 
— the  Sahibs  and  I  myself — ran  to  lift  him  he 
was  dead.  I  helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha, 
he  was  a  strong  Sahib!  But  he  is  dead  and  I, 
old  Mangal  Khan,  am  still  living,  by  your 
favor." 

That  was  more  than  enough !  I  had  my 
ghost — a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I 
would  write  to  the  Society  for  Psychical  Re- 
search— I  would  paralyze  the  Empire  with  the 
news !  But  I  would,  first  of  all,  put  eighty 
miles  of  assessed  crop-land  between  myself  and 
that  dak-bungalow  before  nightfall.  The 
Society  might  send  their  regular  agent  to  in- 
vestigate later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to 
pack  after  noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case. 
As  I  smoked  I  heard  the  game  begin  again — 
with  a  miss  in  balk  this  time,  for  the  whir  was 
a  short  one. 

The  door  was  open  and  I  could  see  into  the 
room.  Click — click!  That  was  a  cannon.  I 
entered  the  room  without  fear,  for  there  was 
sunlight  within  and  a  fresh  breeze  without. 
The  unseen  game  was  going  on  at  a  tremen- 
dous rate.  And  well  it  might,  when  a  restless 
little  rat  was  running  to  and  fro  inside  the 
dingy    ceiling-cloth,    and    a    piece    of    loose 


58  MY  OWN  TRUE 

window-sash  was  making  fifty  breaks  off  the 
window-bolt  as  it  shook  in  the  breeze ! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard 
balls !  Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a  ball 
over  the  slate !  But  I  was  to  be  excused.  Even 
when  I  shut  my  enlightened  eyes  the  sound  was 
marvelously  like  that  of  a  fast  game. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my 
sorrows,  Kadir  Baksh. 

"This  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste! 
No  wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and  is 
speckled.  Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers  came  to 
the  bungalow  late  last  night  when  I  was  sleep- 
ing outside,  and  said  that  it  was  their  custom 
to  rest  in  the  rooms  set  apart  for  the  English 
people!  What  honor  has  the  khansamahf 
They  tried  to  enter,  but  I  told  them  to  go.  No 
wonder,  if  these  Oorias  have  been  here,  that 
the  Presence  is  sorely  spotted.  It  is  shame, 
and  the  work  of  a  dirty  man!" 

Kadir  Baksh  did  not  say  that  he  had  taken 
from  each  gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance, 
and  then,  beyond  my  earshot,  had  beaten  them 
with  the  big  green  umbrella  whose  use  I  could 
never  before  divine.  But  Kadir  Baksh  has  no 
notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  khansamah, 
but  as  he  promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave 


GHOST  STORY  59 

place  to  pity,  and  pity  led  to  a  long  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  put  the  fat  En- 
gineer-Sahib's tragic  death  in  three  separate 
stations — two  of  them  fifty  miles  away.  The 
third  shift  was  to  Calcutta,  and  there  the  Sahib 
died  while  driving  a  dog-cart. 

If  I  had  encouraged  him  the  khansamah 
would  have  wandered  all  through  Bengal  with 
his  corpse. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  I  intended.  I 
stayed  for  the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the 
rat  and  the  sash  and  the  window-bolt  played  a 
ding-dong  "hundred  and  fifty  up."  Then  the 
wind  ran  out  and  the  billiards  stopped,  and  I 
felt  that  I  had  ruined  my  one  genuine,  hall- 
marked ghost  story. 

Had  I  only  stopped  at  the  proper  time,  I 
could  have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all! 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE 
JUKES 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE 
JUKES 

Alive  or  dead — there  is  no  other  way. — Native  Proverb. 

THERE  is,  as  the  conjurors  say, no  decep- 
tion about  this  tale.  Jukes  by  accident 
stumbled  upon  a  village  that  is  well  known  to 
exist,  though  he  is  the  only  Englishman  who 
has  been  there.  A  somewhat  similar  institu- 
tion used  to  flourish  on  the  outskirts  of  Cal- 
cutta, and  there  is  a  story  that  if  you  go  into 
the  heart  of  Bikanir,  which  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  Great  Indian  Desert,  you  shall  come  across 
not  a  village  but  a  town  where  the  Dead  who 
did  not  die  but  may  not  live  have  established 
their  headquarters.  And,  since  it  is  perfectly 
true  that  in  the  same  Desert  is  a  wonderful 
city  where  all  the  rich  money-lenders  retreat 
after  they  have  made  their  fortunes  (fortunes 
so  vast  that  the  owners  cannot  trust  even  the 
strong  hand  of  the  Government  to  protect 
them,  but  take  refuge  in  the  waterless  sands), 
and  drive  sumptuous  C-spring  barouches,  and 
buy  beautiful  girls  and  decorate  their  palaces 
63 


64  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

with  gold  and  ivory  and  Minton  tiles  and 
mother-o'-pearl,  I  do  not  see  why  Jukes's  tale 
should  not  be  true.  He  is  a  Civil  Engineer, 
with  a  head  for  plans  and  distances  and  things 
of  that  kind,  and  he  certainly  would  not  take 
the  trouble  to  invent  imaginary  traps.  He 
could  earn  more  by  doing  his  legitimate  work. 
He  never  varies  the  tale  in  the  telling,  and 
grows  very  hot  and  indignant  when  he  thinks 
of  the  disrespectful  treatment  he  received.  He 
wrote  this  quite  straightforwardly  at  first,  but 
he  has  since  touched  it  up  in  places  and  in- 
troduced Moral  Reflections,  thus : 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight  at- 
tack of  fever.  My  work  necessitated  my  being 
in  camp  for  some  months  between  Pakpattan 
and  Mubarakpur — a  desolate  sandy  stretch  of 
country  as  every  one  who  has  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  go  there  may  know.  My  coolies  were 
neither  more  nor  less  exasperating  than  other 
gangs,  and  my  work  demanded  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  keep  me  from  moping,  had  I  been  in- 
clined to  so  unmanly  a  weakness. 

On  the  23d  December,  1884,  I  felt  a  little 
feverish.  There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time, 
and,  in  consequence,  every  dog  near  my  tent 
was  baying  it.  The  brutes  assembled  in  twos 
and  threes  and  drove  me  frantic.    A  few  days 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  65 

previously  I  had  shot  one  loud-mouthed  singer 
and  suspended  his  carcass  in  terrorcm  about 
fifty  yards  from  my  tent-door.  But  his  friends 
fell  upon,  fought  for,  and  ultimately  devoured 
the  body:  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  sang  their 
hymns  of  thanksgiving  afterward  with  re- 
newed energy. 

The  lightheadedness  which  accompanies 
fever  acts  differently  on  different  men.  Mv 
irritation  gave  way,  after  a  short  time,  to  a 
fixed  determination  to  slaughter  one  huge 
black  and  white  beast  who  had  been  foremost 
in  song  and  first  in  flight  throughout  the  even- 
ing. Thanks  to  a  shaking  hand  and  a  giddy 
head  I  had  already  missed  him  twice  with  both 
barrels  of  my  shotgun,  when  it  struck  me  that 
my  best  plan  would  be  to  ride  him  down  in  the 
open  and  finish  him  off  with  a  hog-spear. 
This,  of  course,  was  merely  the  semi-delirious 
notion  of  a  fever  patient ;  but  I  remember  that 
it  struck  me  at  the  time  as  being  eminently 
practical  and  feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle  Por- 
nic  and  bring  him  round  quietly  to  the  rear  of 
my  tent.  When  the  pony  was  ready,  I  stood 
at  his  head  prepared  to  mount  and  dash  out  as 
soon  as  the  dog  should  again  lift  up  his  voice. 
Pornic,  by  the  way,  had  not  been  out  of  his 


66  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

pickets  for  a  couple  of  days;  the  night  air  was 
crisp  and  chilly;  and  I  was  armed  with  a  spe- 
cially long  and  sharp  pair  of  persuaders  with 
which  I  had  been  rousing  a  sluggish  cob  that 
afternoon.  You  will  easily  believe,  then,  that 
when  he  was  let  go  he  went  quickly.  In  one 
moment,  for  the  brute  bolted  as  straight  as  a 
die,  the  tent  was  left  far  behind,  and  we  were 
flying  over  the  smooth  sandy  soil  at  racing 
speed.  In  another  we  had  passed  the  wretched 
dog,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  why  it  was 
that  I  had  taken  horse  and  hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of 
rapid  motion  through  the  air  must  have  taken 
away  the  remnant  of  my  senses.  I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  standing  upright  in  my  stirrups, 
and  of  brandishing  my  hog-spear  at  the  great 
white  Moon  that  looked  down  so  calmly  on  my 
mad  gallop;  and  of  shouting  challenges  to  the 
camel-thorn  bushes  as  they  whizzed  past. 
Once  or  twice,  I  believe,  I  swayed  forward  on 
Pontic's  neck,  and  literally  hung  on  by  my 
spurs — as  the  marks  next  morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a 
thing  possessed,  over  what  seemed  to  be  a  lim- 
itless expanse  of  moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  re- 
member, the  ground  rose  suddenly  in  front  of 
us,  and  as  we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw  the 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  67 

waters  of  the  Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar 
below.  Then  Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his 
nose,  and  we  rolled  together  down  some  un- 
seen slope. 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I 
recovered  I  was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a  heap 
of  soft  white  sand,  and  the  dawn  was  begin- 
ning to  break  dimly  over  the  edge  of  the  slope 
down  which  I  had  fallen.  As  the  light  grew 
stronger  I  saw  that  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a 
horseshoe-shaped  crater  of  sand,  opening  on 
one  side  directly  on  to  the  shoals  of  the  Sutlej. 
My  fever  had  altogether  left  me,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  a  slight  dizziness  in  the  head,  I 
felt  no  bad  effects  from  the  fall  over  night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards 
away,  was  naturally  a  good  deal  exhausted, 
but  had  not  hurt  himself  in  the  least.  His 
saddle,  a  favorite  polo  one.  was  much  knocked 
about,  and  had  been  twisted  under  his  belly. 
It  took  me  some  time  to  put  him  to  rights,  and 
in  the  meantime  I  had  ample  opportunities  of 
observing  the  spot  into  which  I  had  so  fool- 
ishly dropped. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I 
must  describe  it  at  length ;  inasmuch  as  an  ac- 
curate mental  picture  of  its  peculiarities  will 
be  of  material  assistance  in  enabling  the  reader 
to  understand  what  follows. 


68  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  horse- 
shoe-shaped crater  of  sand  with  steeply  graded 
sand  walls  about  thirty-five  feet  high.      (The 
slope,   I   fancy,  must  have  been  about  65°. ) 
This  crater  enclosed  a  level  piece  of  ground 
about  fifty  yards  long  by  thirty  at  its  broadest 
part,  with  a  rude  well  in  the  centre.     Round 
the  bottom  of  the  crater,  about  three  feet  from 
the  level  of  the  ground  proper,  ran  a  series  of 
eighty-three   semicircular,   ovoid,   square,   and 
multilateral  holes,  all  about  three  feet  at  the 
mouth.     Each  hole  on  inspection  showed  that 
it  was  carefully  shored  internally  with  drift- 
wood  and   bamboos,    and   over   the   mouth   a 
wooden  drip-board  projected,  like  the  peak  of 
a  jockey's  cap,  for  two  feet.     No  sign  of  life 
was  visible  in  these  tunnels,  but  a  most  sicken- 
ing stench  pervaded  the  entire  amphitheatre — 
a  stench  fouler  than  any  which  my  wanderings 
in  Indian  villages  have  introduced  me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anx- 
ious as  I  to  get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round 
the  base  of  the  horseshoe  to  find  some  place 
whence  an  exit  would  be  practicable.  The  in- 
habitants, whoever  they  might  be,  had  not 
thought  fit  to  put  in  an  appearance,  so  I  was 
left  to  my  own  devices.  My  first  attempt  to 
"rush"  Pornic  up  the  steep  sand-banks  showed 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  69 

me  that  I  had  fallen  into  a  trap  exactly  on  the 
same  model  as  that  which  the  ant-lion  sets  for 
its  prey.  At  each  step  the  shifting  sand  poured 
down  from  above  in  tons,  and  rattled  on  the 
drip-boards  of  the  holes  like  small  shot.  A 
couple  of  ineffectual  charges  sent  us  both  roll- 
ing down  to  the  bottom,  half  choked  with  the 
torrents  of  sand ;  and  I  was  constrained  to  turn 
my  attention  to  the  river-bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The 
sand  hills  ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is  true, 
but  there  were  plenty  of  shoals  and  shallows 
across  which  I  could  gallop  Pornic,  and  find 
my  way  back  to  terra  firma  by  turning  sharply 
to  the  right  or  the  left.  As  I  led  Pornic  over 
the  sands  I  was  startled  by  the  faint  pop  of  a 
rifle  across  the  river ;  and  at  the  same  moment 
a  bullet  dropped  with  a  sharp  "whit"  close  to 
Pornic's  head. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the 
missile — a  regulation  Martini-Henry  "picket." 
About  five  hundred  yards  away  a  country-boat 
was  anchored  in  midstream ;  and  a  jet  of  smoke 
drifting  away  from  its  bows  in  the  still  morn- 
ing air  showed  me  whence  the  delicate  atten- 
tion had  come.  Was  ever  a  respectable  gentle- 
man in  such  an  impasse?  The  treacherous 
sand   slope   allowed   no   escape    from   a   spot 


jo  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

which  I  had  visited  most  involuntarily,  and  a 
promenade  on  the  river  frontage  was  the  sig- 
nal for  a  bombardment  from  some  insane  na- 
tive in  a  boat.  I'm  afraid  that  I  lost  my  tem- 
per very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better 
save  my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge ;  and  I  re- 
treated hastily  up  the  sands  and  back  to  the 
horseshoe,  where  I  saw  that  the  noise  of  the 
rifle  had  drawn  sixty-five  human  beings  from 
the  badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  point 
supposed  to  be  untenanted.  I  found  myself 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  spectators — about 
forty  men,  twenty  women,  and  one  child  who 
could  not  have  been  more  than  five  years  old. 
They  were  all  scantily  clothed  in  that  salmon- 
colored  cloth  which  one  associates  with  Hindu 
mendicants,  and,  at  first  sight,  gave  me  the  im- 
pression of  a  band  of  loathsome  fakirs.  The 
filth  and  repulsiveness  of  the  assembly  were 
beyond  all  description,  and  I  shuddered  to 
think  what  their  life  in  the  badger-holes  must 
be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-govern- 
ment has  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  a  na- 
tive's respect  for  a  Sahib,  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  a  certain  amount  of  civility  from  my 
inferiors,  and  on  approaching  the  crowd  nat- 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  71 

urally  expected  that  there  would  be  some  rec- 
ognition of  my  presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  was ;  but  it  was  by  no  means  what  I  had 
looked  for. 

The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me — 
such  laughter  I  hope  I  may  never  hear  again. 
They  cackled,  yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as 
I  walked  into  their  midst;  some  of  them  liter- 
ally throwing  themselves  down  on  the  ground 
in  convulsions  of  unholy  mirth.  In  a  moment 
I  had  let  go  Pornic's  head,  and,  irritated  be- 
yond expression  at  the  morning's  adventure, 
commenced  cuffing  those  nearest  to  me  with 
all  the  force  I  could.  The  wretches  dropped 
under  my  blows  like  nine-pins,  and  the  laugh- 
ter gave  place  to  wails  for  mercy ;  while  those 
yet  untouched  clasped  me  round  the  knees,  im- 
ploring me  in  all  sorts  of  uncouth  tongues  to 
spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling 
very  much  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus 
easily  given  way  to  my  temper,  a  thin,  high 
voice  murmured  in  English  from  behind  my 
shoulder: — "Sahib!  Sahib!  Do  you  not 
know  me?  Sahib,  it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  tele- 
graph-master." 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesita- 


72  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

tion  in  mentioning  the  man's  real  name)  I  had 
known  four  years  before  as  a  Deccanee  Brah- 
min loaned  by  the  Punjab  Government  to  one 
of  the  Khalsia  States.  He  was  in  charge  of  a 
branch  telegraph-office  there,  and  when  I  had 
last  met  him  was  a  jovial,  full-stomached, 
portly  Government  servant  with  a  marvelous 
capacity  for  making  bad  puns  in  English — a 
peculiarity  which  made  me  remember  him  long 
after  I  had  forgotten  his  services  to  me  in  his 
official  capacity.  It  is  seldom  that  a  Hindu 
makes  English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  be- 
yond all  recognition.  Caste-mark,  stomach, 
slate-colored  continuations,  and  unctuous 
speech  were  all  gone.  I  looked  at  a  withered 
skeleton,  turbanless  and  almost  naked,  with 
long  matted  hair  and  deep-set  codfish-eyes. 
But  for  a  crescent-shaped  scar  on  the  left 
cheek — the  result  of  an  accident  for  which  I 
was  responsible — I  should  never  have  known 
him.  But  it  was  indubitably  Gunga  Dass,  and 
— for  this  I  was  thankful — an  English-speak- 
ing native  who  might  at  least  tell  me  the  mean- 
ing of  all  that  I  had  gone  through  that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I 
turned  toward  the  miserable  figure,  and  or- 
dered him  to  show  me  some  method  of  escap- 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  73 

ing  from  the  crater.  He  held  a  freshly  plucked 
crow  in  his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my  question 
climbed  slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which 
ran  in  front  of  the  holes,  and  commenced 
lighting  a  fire  there  in  silence.  Dried  bents, 
sand-poppies,  and  driftwood  burn  quickly ;  and 
I  derived  much  consolation  from  the  fact  that 
he  lit  them  with  an  ordinary  sulphur-match. 
When  they  were  in  a  bright  glow,  and  the 
crow  was  neatly  spitted  in  front  thereof, 
Gunda  Dass  began  without  a  word  of  pre- 
amble :  1 

"There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar. 
The  alive  and  the  dead.  When  you  are  dead 
you  are  dead,  but  when  you  are  alive  you  live." 
(Here  the  crow  demanded  his  attention  for  an 
instant  as  it  twirled  before  the  fire  in  danger 
of  being  burned  to  a  cinder.)  "If  you  die  at 
home  and  do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the 
ghat  to  be  burned  you  come  here." 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made 
plain  now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read  of 
the  grotesque  and  the  horrible  paled  before  the 
fact  just  communicated  by  the  ex-Brahmin. 
Sixteen  years  ago,  when  I  first  landed  in  Bom- 
bay, I  had  been  told  by  a  wandering  Armenian 
of  the  existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a 
place  to  which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  misfor- 


74  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

tune  to  recover  from  trance  or  catalepsy  were 
conveyed  and  kept,  and  I  recollect  laughing 
heartily  at  what  I  was  then  pleased  to  consider 
a  traveler's  tale.  Sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sand-trap,  the  memory  of  Watson's  Hotel, 
with  its  swinging  punkahs,  white-robed  at- 
tendants, and  the  sallow-faced  Armenian,  rose 
up  in  my  mind  as  vividly  as  a  photograph,  and 
I  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter.  The  con- 
trast was  too  absurd ! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean 
bird,  watched  me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom 
laugh,  and  his  surroundings  were  not  such  as 
to  move  Gunga  Dass  to  any  undue  excess  of 
hilarity.  He  removed  the  crow  solemnly  from 
the  wooden  spit  and  as  solemnly  devoured  it. 
Then  he  continued  his  story,  which  I  give  in 
his  own  words : 

"In  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  carried 
to  be  burned  almost  before  you  are  dead. 
When  you  come  to  the  riverside  the  cold  air, 
perhaps,  makes  you  alive,  and  then,  if  you  are 
only  little  alive,  mud  is  put  on  your  nose  and 
mouth  and  you  die  conclusively.  If  you  are 
rather  more  alive,  more  mud  is  put;  but  if  you 
are  too  lively  they  let  you  go  and  take  you 
away.  I  was  too  lively,  and  made  protestation 
with  anger  against  the  indignities  that  they  en- 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  75 

deavored  to  press  upon  me.  In  those  days  I 
was  Brahmin  and  proud  man.  Now  I  am 
dead  man  and  eat" — here  he  eyed  the  well- 
gnawed  breast  bone  with  the  first  sign  of  emo- 
tion that  I  had  seen  in  him  since  we  met — 
"crows,  and  other  things.  They  took  me  from 
my  sheets  when  they  saw  that  I  was  too  lively 
and  gave  me  medicines  for  one  week,  and  I 
survived  successfully.  Then  they  sent  me  by 
rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station,  with  a 
man  to  take  care  of  me ;  and  at  Okara  Station 
we  met  two  other  men,  and  they  conducted 
we  three  on  camels,  in  the  night,  from  Okara 
Station  to  this  place,  and  they  propelled  me 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other  two 
succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since  two 
and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man,  and  now  I  eat  crows." 

"There  is  no  way  of  getting  out?" 

"None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  I  first 
came  I  made  experiments  frequently  and  all 
the  others  also,  but  we  have  always  succumbed 
to  the  sand  which  is  precipitated  upon  our 
heads." 

"But  surely,"  I  broke  in  at  this  point,  "the 
river-front  is  open,  and  it  is  worth  while  dodg- 
ing the  bullets;  while  at  night" — 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of  es- 


76  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

cape  which  a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness  for- 
bade me  sharing  with  Gunga  Dass.  He,  how- 
ever, divined  my  unspoken  thought  almost  as 
soon  as  it  was  formed ;  and,  to  my  intense  as- 
tonishment, gave  vent  to  a  long  low  chuckle  of 
derision — the  laughter,  be  it  understood,  of  a 
superior  or  at  least  of  an  equal. 

"You  will  not" — he  had  dropped  the  Sir 
completely  after  his  opening  sentence — "make 
any  escape  that  way.  But  you  can  try.  I  have 
tried.     Once  only." 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  and  abject 
fear  which  I  had  in  vain  attempted  to  strive 
against  overmastered  me  completely.  My  long 
fast — it  was  now  close  upon  ten  o'clock,  and 
I  had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the  previous 
day — combined  with  the  violent  and  unnatural 
agitation  of  the  ride  had  exhausted  me,  and  I 
verily  believe  that,  for  a  few  minutes,  I  acted 
as  one  mad.  I  hurled  myself  against  the  piti- 
less sand-slope.  I  ran  round  the  base  of  the 
crater,  blaspheming  and  praying  by  turns.  I 
crawled  out  among  the  sedges  of  the  river- 
front, only  to  be  driven  back  each  time  in  an 
agony  of  nervous  dread  by  the  rifle-bullets 
which  cut  up  the  sand  round  me — for  I  dared 
not  face  the  death  of  a  mad  dog  among  that 
hideous  crowd — and  finally  fell,  spent  and  rav- 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  77 

ing,  at  the  curb  of  the  well.  No  one  had  taken 
the  slightest  notice  of  an  exhibition  which 
makes  me  blush  hotly  even  when  I  think  of  it 
now. 

Two  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting  body 
as  they  drew  water,  but  they  were  evidently 
used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  had  no  time  to 
waste  upon  me.  The  situation  was  humiliat- 
ing. Gunga  Dass,  indeed,  when  he  had  banked 
the  embers  of  his  fire  with  sand,  was  at  some 
pains  to  throw  half  a  cupful  of  fetid  water 
over  my  head,  an  attention  for  which  I  could 
have  fallen  on  my  knees  and  thanked  him,  but 
he  was  laughing  all  the  while  in  the  same 
mirthless,  wheezy  key  that  greeted  me  on  my 
first  attempt  to  force  the  shoals.  And  so,  in  a 
semi-comatose  condition,  I  lay  till  noon.  Then, 
being  only  a  man  after  all,  I  felt  hungry,  and 
intimated  as  much  to  Gunga  Dass,  whom  I 
had  begun  to  regard  as  my  natural  protector. 
Following  the  impulse  of  the  outer  world  when 
dealing  with  natives,  I  put  my  hand  into  my 
pocket  and  drew  out  four  annas.  The  ab- 
surdity of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once,  and  I 
was  about  to  replace  the  money. 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  "Give  me  the  money,"  said  he;  "all 
you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we  will  kill 


78  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

you!"  All  this  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world! 

A  Briton's  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to 
guard  the  contents  of  his  pockets;  but  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  convinced  me  of  the  futility 
of  differing  with  the  one  man  who  had  it  in 
his  power  to  make  me  comfortable;  and  with 
whose  help  it  was  possible  that  I  might  even- 
tually escape  from  the  crater.  I  gave  him  all 
the  money  in  my  possession,  Rs.  9-8-5 — 
nine  rupees  eight  annas  and  five  pie — for  I  al- 
ways keep  small  change  as  bakshish  when  I  am 
in  camp.  Gunga  Dass  clutched  the  coins,  and 
hid  them  at  once  in  his  ragged  loin-cloth,  his 
expression  changing  to  something  diabolical 
as  he  looked  round  to  assure  himself  that  no 
one  had  observed  us. 

"Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat," 
said  he. 

What  pleasure  the  possession  of  my  money 
could  have  afforded  him  I  am  unable  to  say; 
but  inasmuch  as  it  did  give  him  evident  delight 
I  was  not  sorry  that  I  had  parted  with  it  so 
readily,  for  I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have 
had  me  killed  if  I  had  refused.  One  does  not 
protest  against  the  vagaries  of  a  den  of  wild 
beasts;  and  my  companions  were  lower  than 
any  beasts.     While  I  devoured  what  Gunga 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  79 

Dass  had  provided,  a  coarse  chapatti  and  a 
cupful  of  the  foul  well-water,  the  people 
showed  not  the  faintest  sign  of  curiosity — that 
curiosity  which  is  so  rampant,  as  a  rule,  in  an 
Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me. 
At  all  events  they  treated  me  with  the  most 
chilling  indifference,  and  Gunga  Dass  was 
nearly  as  bad.  I  plied  him  with  questions 
about  the  terrible  village,  and  received  ex- 
tremely unsatisfactory  answers.  So  far  as 
I  could  gather,  it  had  been  in  existence  from 
time  immemorial — whence  I  concluded  that  it 
was  at  least  a  century  old — and  during  that 
time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to  escape 
from  it.  [I  had  to  control  myself  here  with 
both  hands,  lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay 
hold  of  me  a  second  time  and  drive  me  raving 
round  the  crater.]  Gunga  Dass  took  a  mali- 
cious pleasure  in  emphasizing  this  point  and  in 
watching  me  wince.  Nothing  that  I  could  do 
would  induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the  mysteri- 
ous "They"  were. 

"It  is  so  ordered,"  he  would  reply,  "and  I 
do  not  yet  know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed 
the  orders." 

"Only  wait  till  my  servants  find  that  I  am 
missing,"  I  retorted,  "and  I  promise  you  that 


80  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

this  place  shall  be  cleared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  civility,  too, 
my  friend." 

"Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces  be- 
fore they  came  near  this  place;  and,  besides, 
you  are  dead,  my  dear  friend.  It  is  not  your 
fault,  of  course,  but  none  the  less  you  are  dead 
and  buried." 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  I 
was  told,  were  dropped  down  from  the  land 
side  into  the  amphitheatre,  and  the  inhabitants 
fought  for  them  like  wild  beasts.  When  a 
man  felt  his  death  coming  on  he  retreated  to 
his  lair  and  died  there.  The  body  was  some- 
times dragged  out  of  the  hole  and  thrown  on 
to  the  sand,  or  allowed  to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  "thrown  on  to  the  sand"  caught 
my  attention,  and  I  asked  Gunga  Dass  whether 
this  sort  of  thing  was  not  likely  to  breed  a  pes- 
tilence. 

"That,"  said  he,  with  another  of  his  wheezy 
chuckles,  "you  may  see  for  yourself  subse- 
quently. You  will  have  much  time  to  make 
observations." 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once 
more  and  hastily  continued  the  conversation : — 
"And  how  do  you  live  here  from  day  to  day? 
What  do  you  do?"     The  question  elicited  ex- 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  81 

actly  the  same  answer  as  before — coupled  with 
the  information  that  "this  place  is  like  your 
European  heaven;  there  is  neither  marrying 
nor  giving  in  marriage." 

Gunga  Dass  has  been  educated  at  a  Mission 
School,  and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  he 
only  changed  his  religion  "like  a  wise  man," 
might  have  avoided  the  living  grave  which  was 
now  his  portion.  But  as  long  as  I  was  with 
him  I  fancy  he  was  happy. 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the 
dominant  race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  com- 
pletely at  the  mercy  of  his  native  neighbors. 
In  a  deliberate  lazy  way  he  set  himself  to  tor- 
ture me  as  a  schoolboy  would  devote  a  raptur- 
ous half-hour  to  watching  the  agonies  of  an 
impaled  beetle,  or  as  a  ferret  in  a  blind  burrow 
might  glue  himself  comfortably  to  the  neck  of 
a  rabbit.  The  burden  of  his  conversation  was 
that  there  was  no  escape  "of  no  kind  what- 
ever," and  that  I  should  stay  here  till  I  died 
and  was  "thrown  on  to  the  sand."  If  it  were 
possible  to  forejudge  the  conversation  of  the 
Damned  on  the  advent  of  a  new  soul  in  their 
abode,  I  should  say  that  they  would  speak  as 
Gunga  Dass  did  to  me  throughout  that  long 
afternoon.  I  was  powerless  to  protest  or  an- 
swer; all  my  energies  being  devoted  to  a  strug- 


82  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

gle  against  the  inexplicable  terror  that  threat- 
ened to  overwhelm  me  again  and  again.  I 
can  compare  the  feeling  to  nothing  except  the 
struggles  of  a  man  against  the  overpowering 
nausea  of  the  Channel  passage — only  my 
agony  was  of  the  spirit  and  infinitely  more  ter- 
rible. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began 
to  appear  in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  of 
the  afternoon  sun,  which  were  now  sloping  in 
at  the  mouth  of  the  crater.  They  assembled  in 
little  knots,  and  talked  among  themselves  with- 
out even  throwing  a  glance  in  my  direction. 
About  four  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
Gunga  Dass  rose  and  dived  into  his  lair  for  a 
moment,  emerging  with  a  live  crow  in  his 
hands.  The  wretched  bird  was  in  a  most 
draggled  and  deplorable  condition,  but  seemed 
to  be  in  no  way  afraid  of  its  master.  Advanc- 
ing cautiously  to  the  river  front,  Gunga  Dass 
stepped  from  tussock  to  tussock  until  he  had 
reached  a  smooth  patch  of  sand  directly  in  the 
line  of  the  boat's  fire.  The  occupants  of  the 
boat  took  no  notice.  Here  he  stopped,  and, 
with  a  couple  of  dexterous  turns  of  the  wrist, 
pegged  the  bird  on  its  back  with  outstretched 
wings.  As  was  only  natural,  the  crow  began 
to  shriek  at  once  and  beat  the  air  with  its  claws. 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  83 

In  a  few  seconds  the  clamor  had  attracted  the 
attention  of  a  bevy  of  wild  crows  on  a  shoal  a 
few  hundred  yards  away,  where  they  were  dis- 
cussing something  that  looked  like  a  corpse. 
Half  a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once  to  see 
what  was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved,  to 
attack  the  pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who 
had  lain  down  on  a  tussock,  motioned  to  me  to 
be  quiet,  though  I  fancy  this  was  a  needless 
precaution.  In  a  moment,  and  before  I  could 
see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who  had 
grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless  bird, 
was  entangled  in  the  latter's  claws,  swiftly  dis- 
engaged by  Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged  down 
beside  its  companion  in  adversity.  Curiosity, 
it  seemed,  overpowered  the  rest  of  the  flock, 
and  almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and  I  had  time 
to  withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two  more  captives 
were  struggling  in  the  upturned  claws  of  the 
decoys.  So  the  chase — if  I  can  give  it  so  dig- 
nified a  name — continued  until  Gunga  Dass 
had  captured  seven  crows.  Five  of  them  he 
throttled  at  once,  reserving  two  for  further 
operations  another  day.  I  was  a  good  deal 
impressed  by  this,  to  me,  novel  method  of  se- 
curing food,  and  complimented  Gunga  Dass  on 
his  skill. 

"It  is  nothing  to  do,"  said  he.    "To-morrow 


84  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

you  must  do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger  than 
I  am." 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset 
me  not  a  little,  and  I  answered  peremptorily; 
— "Indeed,  you  old  ruffian!  What  do  you 
think  I  have  given  you  money  for?" 

"Very  well,"  was  the  unmoved  reply.  "Per- 
haps not  to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  nor 
subsequently;  but  in  the  end,  and  for  many 
years,  you  will  catch  crows  and  eat  crows,  and 
you  will  thank  your  European  God  that  you 
have  crows  to  catch  and  eat." 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for 
this ;  but  judged  it  best  under  the  circum- 
stances to  smother  my  resentment.  An  hour 
later  I  was  eating  one  of  the  crows ;  and,  as 
Gunga  Dass  had  said,  thanking  my  God  that 
I  had  a  crow  to  eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live 
shall  I  forget  that  evening  meal.  The  whole 
population  were  squatting  on  the  hard  sand 
platform  opposite  their  dens,  huddled  over  tiny 
fires  of  refuse  and  dried  rushes.  Death,  hav- 
ing once  laid  his  hand  upon  these  men  and  for- 
borne to  strike,  seemed  to  stand  aloof  from 
them  now ;  for  most  of  our  company  were  old 
men,  bent  and  worn  and  twisted  with  years, 
and  women  aged  to  all  appearance  as  the  Fates 
themselves.     They  sat  together  in  knots  and 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  85 

talked — God  only  knows  what  they  found  to 
discuss — in  low  equable  tones,  curiously  in 
contrast  to  the  strident  babble  with  which  na- 
tives are  accustomed  to  make  day  hideous. 
Now  and  then  an  access  of  that  sudden  fury 
which  had  possessed  me  in  the  morning  would 
lay  hold  on  a  man  or  woman;  and  with  yells 
and  imprecations  the  sufferer  would  attack  the 
steep  slope  until,  baffled  and  bleeding,  he  fell 
back  on  the  platform  incapable  of  moving  a 
limb.  The  others  would  never  even  raise  their 
eyes  when  this  happened,  as  men  too  well 
aware  of  the  futility  of  their  fellows'  attempts 
and  wearied  with  their  useless  repetition.  I 
saw  four  such  outbursts  in  the  course  of  that 
evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business-like 
view7  of  my  situation,  and  while  we  were  din- 
ing— I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  recollection 
now,  but  it  was  painful  enough  at  the  time — 
propounded  the  terms  on  which  he  would  con- 
sent to  "do"  for  me.  My  nine  rupees  eight 
annas,  he  argued,  at  the  rate  of  three  annas  a 
day,  would  provide  me  with  food  for  fifty- 
one  days,  or  about  seven  weeks ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  would  be  willing  to  cater  for  me  for  that 
length  of  time.  At  the  end  of  it  I  was  to  look 
after  myself.     For  a  further  consideration — 


86  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

videlicet  my  boots — he  would  be  willing  to  al- 
low me  to  occupy  the  den  next  to  his  own,  and 
would  supply  me  with  as  much  dried  grass  for 
bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

"Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,"  I  replied ;  "to  the 
first  terms  I  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  my  killing  you  as 
you  sit  here  and  taking  everything  that  you 
have"  (I  thought  of  the  two  invaluable  crows 
at  the  time),  "I  flatly  refuse  to  give  you  my 
boots  and  shall  take  whichever  den  I  please." 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad 
when  I  saw  that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga  Dass 
changed  his  tone  immediately,  and  disavowed 
all  intention  of  asking  for  my  boots.  At  the 
time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all  strange  that 
I,  a  Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of  thirteen  years' 
standing  in  the  Service,  and,  I  trust,  an  aver- 
age Englishman,  should  thus  calmly  threaten 
murder  and  violence  against  the  man  who  had, 
for  a  consideration  it  is  true,  taken  me  under 
his  wing.  I  had  left  the  world,  it  seemed,  for 
centuries.  I  was  as  certain  then  as  I  am  now 
of  my  own  existence,  that  in  the  accursed  set- 
tlement there  was  no  law  save  that  of  the 
strongest ;  that  the  living  dead  men  had  thrown 
behind  them  every  canon  of  the  world  which 
had  cast  them  out;  and  that  I  had  to  depend 


MORROWBIK  JUKES  87 

for  my  own  life  on  my  strength  and  vigilance 
alone.  The  crew  of  the  ill-fated  Mignonette 
are  the  only  men  who  would  understand  my 
frame  of  mind.  "At  present,"  1  argued  to 
myself,  "I  am  strong  and  a  match  for  six  of 
these  wretches.  It  is  imperatively  necessary 
that  I  should,  for  my  own  sake,  keep  both 
health  and  strength  until  the  hour  of  my  re- 
lease comes — if  it  ever  does." 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and 
drank  as  much  as  I  could,  and  made  Gunga 
Dass  understand  that  I  intended  to  be  his  mas- 
ter, and  that  the  least  sign  of  insubordination 
on  his  part  would  be  visited  with  the  only  pun- 
ishment I  had  it  in  my  power  to  inflict — sudden 
and  violent  death.  Shortly  after  this  I  went 
to  bed.  That  is  to  say,  Gunga  Dass  gave  me 
a  double  armful  of  dried  bents  which  I  thrust 
down  the  mouth  of  the  lair  to  the  right  of  his, 
and  followed  myself,  feet  foremost;  the  hole 
running  about  nine  feet  into  the  sand  with  a 
slight  downward  inclination,  and  being  neatly 
shored  with  timbers.  From  my  den,  which 
faced  the  river-front,  I  was  able  to  watch  the 
waters  of  the  Sutlej  flowing  past  under  the 
light  of  a  young  moon  and  compose  myself 
to  sleep  as  best  I  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  for- 


88  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

get.  My  den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffin, 
and  the  sides  had  been  worn  smooth  and 
greasy  by  the  contact  of  innumerable  naked 
bodies,  added  to  which  it  smelled  abominably. 
Sleep  was  altogether  out  of  the  question  to  one 
in  my  excited  frame  of  mind.  As  the  night 
wore  on,  it  seemed  that  the  entire  amphitheatre 
was  filled  with  legions  of  unclean  devils  that, 
trooping  up  from  the  shoals  below,  mocked 
the  unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  tem- 
perament,— very  few  Engineers  are, — but  on 
that  occasion  I  was  as  completely  prostrated 
with  nervous  terror  as  any  woman.  After 
half  an  hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able  once 
more  to  calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape. 
Any  exit  by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of 
course,  impracticable.  I  had  been  thoroughly 
convinced  of  this  some  time  before.  It  was 
possible,  just  possible,  that  I  might,  in  the  un- 
certain moonlight,  safely  run  the  gauntlet  of 
the  rifle  shots.  The  place  was  so  full  of  terror 
for  me  that  I  was  prepared  to  undergo  any 
risk  in  leaving  it.  Imagine  my  delight,  then, 
when  after  creeping  stealthily  to  the  river- 
front I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was  not 
there.  My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the  next 
few  steps! 


* 


ttOM&Ol  .W  <d  iBniaho  „,U  noH  £  wsibnA  urlul   yd  S^m***** 


THE  STRAY-  OF 

My  den  was  nearly  .  »w  as  a  coffin, 

and   the   sides    had    ;  >oth    and 

greasy  by  the  contac  le  naked 

bodies,  added  to  which  it  abominably. 

Sleep  was  altogether  .estion  to  one 

in  my  excited  frame  of  mill  the  night 

wore  on,  it  seemed  thi  rire  amphitheatre 

was  filled  with  legions  of  unclean  devils  that, 
trooping  up  from  the  shoals  below,  mocked 
the  unfortunates  in  their  la. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  tem- 
perament,— very  few  Engineers  are, — but  on 
that  occasion  I  was  as  completely  prostrated 
with   nervous   terror  woman.      After 

half  an  hour  or  so,  I  I  was  able  once 

more  to  calmly  re  nances  of  escape. 

Any   exit   by   the   ste  1   walls   was,    of 

course,  impracticable  been  thoroughly 

convinced  of  this  soi  before.     It  was 

possible,  just  possible,  that  I  might,  in  the  un- 
certain moonlight  run  the  gauntlet  of 
the  rifle  shots.  Th  was  so  full  of  terror 
for  me  that  I  w  red  to  undergo  any 
risk  in  leaving  me  my  delight,  then, 
when  after  creej  Ithily  to  the  river- 
front I  found  tl  ial  boat  was  not 
there.  My  freed'  e  me  in  the  next 
few  steps! 


I  struggled  clear,  sweating  with  terror 
Mezzogravure  by  John  Andrew  &  Son  after  original  by  W.  Kirkpatrick 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  89 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool  that 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn  of 
the  horseshoe,  I  could  wade  across,  turn  the 
flank  of  the  crater,  and  make  my  way  inland. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  marched 
briskly  past  the  tussocks  where  Gunga  Dass 
had  snared  the  crows,  and  out  in  the  direction 
of  the  smooth  white  sand  beyond.  My  first 
step  from  the  tufts  of  dried  grass  showed  me 
how  utterly  futile  was  any  hope  of  escape ;  for 
as  I  put  my  foot  down,  I  felt  an  indescribable 
drawing,  sucking  motion  of  the  sand  below. 
Another  moment  and  my  leg  was  swallowed 
up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In  the  moonlight  the 
whole  surface  of  the  sand  seemed  to  be  shaken 
with  devilish  delight  at  my  disappointment. 
I  struggled  clear,  sweating  with  terror  and  ex- 
ertion, back  to  the  tussocks  behind  me  and  fell 
on  my  face. 

My  only  means  of  escape  from  the  semicir- 
cle was  protected  with  a  quicksand! 

How  long  I  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea ; 
but  I  was  roused  at  last  by  the  malevolent 
chuckle  of  Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  "I  would 
advise  you,  Protector  of  the  Poor"  (the  ruffian 
was  speaking  English)  "to  return  to  your 
house.  It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down  here. 
Moreover,   when   the   boat   returns,   you   will 


90  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

most  certainly  be  rifled  at."  He  stood  over 
me  in  the  dim  light  of  the  dawn,  chuckling 
and  laughing  to  himself.  Suppressing  my  first 
impulse  to  catch  the  man  by  the  neck  and 
throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  I  rose  sullenly 
and  followed  him  to  the  platform  below  the 
burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I 
spoke,  I  asked : — "Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the 
good  of  the  boat  if  I  can't  get  out  anyhow?" 
I  recollect  that  even  in  my  deepest  trouble  I 
had  been  speculating  vaguely  on  the  waste  of 
ammunition  in  guarding  an  already  well  pro- 
tected foreshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  again  and  made  an- 
swer:— "They  have  the  boat  only  in  daytime. 
It  is  for  the  reason  that  there  is  a  way.  I  hope 
we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company 
for  much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot 
when  you  have  been  here  some  years  and  eaten 
roast  crow  long  enough." 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  toward 
the  fetid  burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep. 
An  hour  or  so  later  I  was  awakened  by  a 
piercing  scream — the  shrill,  high-pitched 
scream  of  a  horse  in  pain.  Those  who  have 
once  heard  that  will  never  forget  the  sound. 
I  found  some  little  difficulty  in  scrambling  out 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  91 

of  the  burrow.  When  I  was  in  the  open,  I  saw 
Pornic,  my  poor  old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on  the 
sandy  soil.  How  they  had  killed  him  1  cannol 
guess.  Gunga  Dass  explained  that  horse  was 
better  than  crow,  and  "greatesl  good  of  great- 
est number  is  political  maxim.  We  arc  now 
Republic,  Mister  Jukes,  and  you  are  entitled  to 
a  fair  share  of  the  beast.  If  you  like,  we  will 
pass  a  vote  of  thanks.     Shall  I  propose?" 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed!  A  Repub- 
lic of  wild  beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of  a 
pit,  to  eat  and  fight  and  sleep  till  we  died.  I 
attempted  no  protest  of  any  kind,  but  sat  clown 
and  stared  at  the  hideous  sight  in  front  of  me. 
In  less  time  almost  than  it  takes  me  to  write 
this,  Pornic's  body  was  divided,  in  some  un- 
clean way  or  other;  the  men  and  women  had 
dragged  the  fragments  on  to  the  platform  and 
were  preparing  their  morning  meal.  Gunga 
Dass  cooked  mine.  The  almost  irresistible  im- 
pulse to  fly  at  the  sand  walls  until  I  was  wear- 
ied laid  hold  of  me  afresh,  and  I  had  to  strug- 
gle against  it  with  all  my  might.  Gunga  Dass 
was  offensively  jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if 
he  addressed  another  remark  of  any  kind 
whatever  to  me  I  should  strangle  him  where  he 
sat.  This  silenced  him  till  silence  became  in- 
supportable, and  I  bade  him  say  something. 


92  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

"You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the  other 
Feringhi,"  he  said  coolly,  watching  me  over 
the  fragment  of  gristle  that  he  was  gnawing. 

"What  other  Sahib,  you  swine?  Speak  at 
once,  and  don't  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie." 

"He  is  over  there,"  answered  Gunga  Dass, 
pointing  to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors 
to  the  left  of  my  own.  "You  can  see  for  your- 
self. He  died  in  the  burrow  as  you  will  die, 
and  I  will  die,  and  as  all  these  men  and  women 
and  the  one  child  will  also  die." 

"For  pity's  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
him.  Who  was  he?  When  did  he  come,  and 
when  did  he  die?" 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part. 
Gunga  Dass  only  leered  and  replied : — "I  will 
not — unless  you  give  me  something  first." 

Then  I  recollected  where  I  was,  and  struck 
the  man  between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning 
him.  He  stepped  down  from  the  platform  at 
once,  and,  cringing  and  fawning  and  weeping 
and  attempting  to  embrace  my  feet,  led  me 
round  to  the  burrow  which  he  had  indicated. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentle- 
man. Your  God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not. 
He  was  as  anxious  to  escape  as  you  were,  and 
he  was  shot  from  the  boat,  though  we  all  did 
things  to  prevent  him  from  attempting.     He 


MOUROWBIE  JUKES  93 

was  shot  here."  Gunga  Dass  laid  his  hand  on 
his  lean  stomach  and  bowed  i<>  the  earth. 

"Well,  and  what  then?     Go  on!" 

"And  then — and  then,  Yonr  Honor,  we  car- 
ried him  to  his  house  and  gave  him  water,  and 
put  wet  cloths  on  the  wound,  and  he  laid  down 
in  his  house  and  gave  up  the  ghost." 

"In  how  long?     In  how  long?" 

"About  half  an  hour  after  he  received  his 
wound.  I  call  Vishnu  to  witness,"  yelled  the 
wretched  man,  "that  I  did  everything  for  him. 
Everything  which  was  possible,  that  I  did!" 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
clasped  my  ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts  about 
Gunga  Dass's  benevolence,  and  kicked  him  off 
as  he  lay  protesting. 

"I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything  he 
had.  But  I  can  find  out  in  a  minute  or  two. 
How  long  was  the  Sahib  here?" 

"Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he  must 
have  gone  mad.  But  hear  me  swear,  Protec- 
tor of  the  Poor !  Won't  Your  Honor  hear  me 
swear  that  I  never  touched  an  article  that  be- 
longed to  him?  What  is  Your  Worship  go- 
ing to  do?" 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and 
had  hauled  him  on  to  the  platform  opposite 
the  deserted  burrow.     As  I  did  so  I  thought 


94  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

of  my  wretched  fellow-prisoner's  unspeakable 
misery  among  all  these  horrors  for  eighteen 
months,  and  the  final  agony  of  dying  like  a 
rat  in  a  hole,  with  a  bullet-wound  in  the  stom- 
ach. Gunga  Dass  fancied  I  was  going  to  kill 
him  and  howled  pitifully.  The  rest  of  the 
population,  in  the  plethora  that  follows  a  full 
flesh  meal,  watched  us  without  stirring. 

"Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass/'  said  I,  "and  fetch 
it  out." 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  with  horror 
now.  Gunga  Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  plat- 
form and  howled  aloud. 

"But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib — a  high-caste 
Brahmin.  By  your  soul,  by  your  father's  soul, 
do  not  make  me  do  this  thing !" 

"Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and 
my  father's  soul,  in  you  go!"  I  said,  and,  seiz- 
ing him  by  the  shoulders,  I  crammed  his  head 
into  the  mouth  of  the  burrow,  kicked  the  rest 
of  him  in,  and,  sitting  down,  covered  my  face 
with  my  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle 
and  a  creak;  then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing, 
choking  whisper  speaking  to  himself;  then  a 
soft  thud — and  I  uncovered  my  eyes. 

The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  en- 
trusted  to   its   keeping   into   a   yellow-brown 


MORROWBIE  JUKES  9$ 

mummy.  I  told  Gunga  Dass  to  stand  off  while 
I  examined  it.  The  body — clad  in  an  olive- 
green  hunting-suit  much  stained  and  worn, 
with  leather  pads  on  the  shoulders — was  that 
of  a  man  betwen  thirty  and  forty,  above  mid- 
dle height,  with  light,  sandy  hair,  long  mous- 
tache, and  a  rough  unkempt  beard.  The  left 
canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was  missing,  and  a 
portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was  gone. 
On  the  second  finger  of  the  left  hand  was  a 
ring — a  shield-shaped  bloodstone  set  in  gold, 
with  a  monogram  that  might  have  been  either 
"B.K."  or  "B.L."  On  the  third  finger  of  the 
right  hand  was  a  silver  ring  in  the  shape  of  a 
coiled  cobra,  much  worn  and  tarnished. 
Gunga  Dass  deposited  a  handful  of  trifles  he 
had  picked  out  of  the  burrow  at  my  feet,  and, 
covering  the  face  of  the  body  with  my  hand- 
kerchief, I  turned  to  examine  these.  I  give 
the  full  list  in  the  hope  that  it  may  lead  to  the 
identification  of  the  unfortunate  man : 

i.  Bowl  of  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the 
edge;  much  worn  and  blackened;  bound  with 
string  at  the  screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys;  wards  of  both 
broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell-handled  penknife,  silver 
or  nickel,  name-plate,  marked  with  monogram 
"B.K." 


96  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

4.  Envelope,  postmark  undecipherable, 
bearing  a  Victorian  stamp,  addressed  to  "Miss 
Mon— "   (rest  illegible)—  "ham"— "nt." 

5.  Imitation  crocodile-skin  notebook  with 
pencil.  First  forty-five  pages  blank ;  four  and 
a-half  illegible;  fifteen  others  filled  with  pri- 
vate memoranda  relating  chiefly  to  three  per- 
sons— a  Mrs.  L.  Singleton,  abbreviated  several 
times  to  "Lot  Single,"  "Mrs.  S.  May,"  and 
"Garmison,"  referred  to  in  places  as  "Jerry" 
or  "Jack." 

6.  Handle  of  small-sized  hunting-knife. 
Blade  snapped  short.  Buck's  horn,  diamond 
cut,  with  swivel  and  ring  on  the  butt;  frag- 
ment of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried 
all  these  things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  I  have 
here  written  them  down.  The  notebook  first 
attracted  my  attention,  and  I  put  it  in  my 
pocket  with  a  view  to  studying  it  later  on. 
The  rest  of  the  articles  I  conveyed  to  my  bur- 
row for  safety's  sake,  and  there,  being  a  me- 
thodical man,  I  inventoried  them.  I  then  re- 
turned to  the  corpse  and  ordered  Gunga  Dass 
to  help  me  to  carry  it  out  to  the  river-front. 
While  we  were  engaged  in  this,  the  exploded 
shell  of  an  old  brown  cartridge  dropped  out  of 
one   of   the   pockets   and   rolled   at   my    feet. 


MORROWMH  JUKES  97 

Gunga  Dass  had  not  seen  it;  and  I  fell  to 
thinking1  that  a  man  does  not  carry  exploded 
cartridge-cases,  especially  "browns,"  which 
will  not  bear  loading  twice,  aboul  with  him 
when  shooting.  Tn  other  words,  that  cart- 
ridge-case has  been  fired  inside  the  crater. 
Consequently  there  must  be  a  gun  somewhere. 
I  was  on  the  verge  of  asking  Gunga  Dass,  but 
checked  myself,  knowing  thai  he  would  lie. 
We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  inten- 
tion to  push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up 
— the  only  possible  mode  of  burial  that  I  could 
think  of.  I  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  go  away. 
Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the 
quicksand.  In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face 
downward,  I  tore  the  frail  and  rotten  khaki 
shooting-coat  open,  disclosing  a  hideous  cav- 
ity in  the  back.  I  have  already  told  you  that 
the  dry  sand  had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the 
body.  A  moment's  glance  showed  that  the 
gaping  hole  had  been  caused  by  a  gun-shot 
wound ;  the  gun  must  have  been  fired  with  the 
muzzle  almost  touching  the  back.  The  shoot- 
ing-coat, being  intact,  had  been  drawn  over 
the  body  after  death,  which  must  have  been 
instantaneous.  The  secret  of  the  poor  wretch's 
death  was  plain  to  me  in  a  flash.     Some  one 


98  THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

of  the  crater,  presumably  Gunga  Dass,  must 
have  shot  him  with  his  own  gun — the  gun  that 
fitted  the  brown  cartridges.  He  had  never 
attempted  to  escape  in  the  face  of  the  rifle-fire 
from  the  boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it 
sink  from  sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  I 
shuddered  as  I  watched.  In  a  dazed,  half- 
conscious  way  I  turned  to  peruse  the  notebook. 
A  stained  and  discolored  slip  of  paper  had  been 
inserted  between  the  binding  and  the  back,  and 
dropped  out  as  I  opened  the  pages.  This  is  what 
it  contained: — "Four  out  from  crow  clump: 
three  left;  nine  out;  two  right;  three  back;  two 
left;  fourteen  out;  two  left;  seven  out;  one 
left;  nine  back;  two  right;  six  back;  four 
right;  seven  back."  The  paper  had  been 
burned  and  charred  at  the  edges.  What  it 
meant  I  could  not  understand.  I  sat  down  on 
the  dried  bents  turning  it  over  and  over  be- 
tween my  fingers,  until  I  was  aware  of  Gunga 
Dass  standing  immediately  behind  me  with 
glowing  eyes  and  outstretched  hands. 

"Have  you  got  it?"  he  panted.  "Will  you 
not  let  me  look  at  it  also?  I  swear  that  I  will 
return  it." 

"Got  what?     Return  what?"  I  asked. 

"That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.     It 


MORHOWlUi:  JUKES  99 

will  help  us  both."  He  stretched  out  his  long, 
bird-like  talons,  trembling  with  eagerness. 

"I  could  never  find  it,"  he  continued.  "He 
had  secreted  it  about  his  person.  Therefore 
I  shot  him,  but  nevertheless  I  was  unable  to 
obtain  it." 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little 
fiction  about  the  rifle-bullet.  1  received  the 
information  perfectly  calmly.  Morality  is 
blunted  by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are 
alive. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about? 
What  is  it  you  want  me  to  give  you?" 

"The  piece  of  paper  in  the  notebook.  It 
will  help  us  both.  Oh,  you  fool!  You  fool! 
Can  you  not  see  what  it  will  do  for  us?  We 
shall  escape!" 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream,  and  he 
danced  with  excitement  before  me.  I  own  I 
was  moved  at  the  chance  of  getting  away. 

"Don't  skip!  Explain  yourself.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help 
us?    What  does  it  mean?" 

"Read  it  aloud !  Read  it  aloud !  I  beg  and 
I  pray  you  to  read  it  aloud." 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly, 
and  drew  an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with  his 
fingers. 


ioo         THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

"See  now !  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun- 
barrels  without  the  stock.  I  have  those  bar- 
rels. Four  gun-barrels  out  from  the  place 
where  I  caught  crows.  Straight  out ;  do  you 
follow  me?  Then  three  left — Ah!  how  well 
I  remember  when  that  man  worked  it  out  night 
after  night.  Then  nine  out,  and  so  on.  Out 
is  always  straight  before  you  across  the  quick- 
sand.    He  told  me  so  before  I  killed  him." 

"But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn't  you 
get  out  before?" 

"I  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
working  it  out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  how 
he  was  working  it  out  night  after  night  when 
the  boat  had  gone  away,  and  he  could  get  out 
near  the  quicksand  safely.  Then  he  said  that 
we  would  get  away  together.  But  I  was  afraid 
that  he  would  leave  me  behind  one  night  when 
he  had  worked  it  all  out,  and  so  I  shot  him. 
Besides,  it  is  not  advisable  that  the  men  who 
once  get  in  here  should  escape.  Only  I,  and  / 
am  a  Brahmin." 

The  prospect  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga 
Dass's  caste  back  to  him.  He  stood  up, 
walked  about  and  gesticulated  violently. 
Eventually  I  managed  to  make  him  talk  so- 
berly, and  he  told  me  how  this  Englishman 
had  spent  six  months  night  after  night  in  ex- 


MORROW BIE  JUKES  101 

ploring,  inch  by  inch,  the  passage  across  the 
quicksand;  how  he  had  declared  it  to  be  sim- 
plicity itself  up  to  within  about  twenty  van  Is 
of  the  river  bank  after  turning  the  flank  of 
the  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe.  This  much  he 
had  evidently  not  completed  when  Gunga  Dass 
shot  him  with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  possibilities 
of  escape  I  recollect  shaking  hands  effusively 
with  Gunga  Dass,  after  we  had  decided  that 
w  e  were  to  make  an  attempt  to  get  away  that 
very  night.  It  was  weary  work  waiting 
throughout  the  afternoon. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
when  the  Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip 
of  the  crater,  Gunga  Dass  made  a  move  for 
his  burrow  to  bring  out  the  gun-barrels 
whereby  to  measure  our  path.  All  the  other 
wretched  inhabitants  had  retired  to  their  lairs 
long  ago.  The  guardian  boat  drifted  down- 
stream some  hours  before,  and  we  were  utterly 
alone  by  the  crow-clump.  Gunga  Dass,  while 
carrying  the  gun-barrels,  let  slip  the  piece  of 
paper  which  was  to  be  our  guide.  I  stooped 
down  hastily  to  recover  it,  and,  as  I  did  so, 
I  was  aware  that  the  diabolical  Brahmin  was 
aiming  a  violent  blow  at  the  back  of  my  head 
with  the  gun-barrels.     It  was  too  late  to  turn 


102         THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF 

round.  I  must  have  received  the  blow  some- 
where on  the  nape  of  my  neck.  A  hundred 
thousand  fiery  stars  danced  before  my  eyes, 
and  I  fell  forward  senseless  at  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon 
was  going  down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intoler- 
able pain  in  the  back  of  my  head.  Gunga  Dass 
had  disappeared  and  my  mouth  was  full  of 
blood.  I  lay  down  again  and  prayed  that  I 
might  die  without  more  ado.  Then  the  unrea- 
soning fury  which  I  have  before  mentioned 
laid  hold  upon  me,  and  I  staggered  inland 
toward  the  walls  of  the  crater.  It  seemed  that 
some  one  was  calling  to  me  in  a  whisper — 
"Sahib!  Sahib!  Sahib!"  exactly  as  my  bearer 
used  to  call  me  in  the  mornings.  I  fancied  that 
I  was  delirious  until  a  handful  of  sand  fell  at 
my  feet.  Then  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  head 
peering  down  into  the  amphitheatre — the  head 
of  Dunnoo,  my  dog-boy,  who  attended  to  my 
collies.  As  soon  as  he  had  attracted  my  at- 
tention, he  held  up  his  hand  and  showed  a 
rope.  I  motioned,  staggering  to  and  fro  the 
while,  that  he  should  throw  it  down.  It  was  a 
couple  of  leather  punkah-ropes  knotted  to- 
gether, with  a  loop  at  one  end.  I  slipped  the 
loop  over  my  head  and  under  my  arms ;  heard 
Dunnoo   urge   something    forward ;   was   con- 


MORROW  HI  I :  JUKES  103 

scions  that  I  was  being  dragged,  face  down- 
ward up  the  Step  sand  slope,  and  the  next  in- 
stant found  myself  choked  and  half  fainting 
on  the  sand  hills  overlooking  the  crater.  1  >un- 
noo,  with  his  face  ashy  grey  in  the  moonlight, 
implored  me  not  to  stay  bnt  to  get  back  to  my 
tent  at  once. 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Pornic's  foot- 
prints fourteen  miles  across  the  sands  to  the 
crater;  had  returned  and  told  my  servants, 
who  flatly  refused  to  meddle  with  any  one, 
white  or  black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous 
Village  of  the  Dead ;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had 
taken  one  of  my  ponies  and  a  couple  of  pun- 
kah-ropes, returned  to  the  crater,  and  hauled 
me  out  as  I  have  described. 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  Dunnoo  is  now 
my  personal  servant  on  a  gold  mohnr  a  month 
— a  sum  which  I  still  think  far  too  little  for 
the  services  he  has  rendered.  Nothing  on 
earth  will  induce  me  to  go  near  that  devilish 
spot  again,  or  to  reveal  its  whereabouts  more 
clearly  than  I  have  done.  Of  Gunga  Dass  T 
have  never  found  a  trace,  nor  do  I  wish  to  do. 
My  sole  motive  in  giving  this  to  be  published 
is  the  hope  that  some  one  may  possibly  iden- 
tify, from  the  details  and  the  inventory  which 
I  have  given  above,  the  corpse  of  the  man  in 
the  olive-green  hunting-suit. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 

"Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be 
found  worthy." 

THE  law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  con- 
duct of  life,  and  one  not  easy  to  follow. 
I  have  been  fellow  to  a  beggar  again  and  again 
under  circumstances  which  prevented  either  of 
us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was  worthy. 
I  have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince,  though 
I  once  came  near  to  kinship  with  what  might 
have  been  a  veritable  King  and  was  promised 
the  reversion  of  a  Kingdom — army,  law- 
courts,  revenue  and  policy  all  complete.  But, 
to-day,  I  greatly  fear  that  my  King  is  dead, 
and  if  I  want  a  crown  I  must  go  and  hunt  it 
for  myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  rail- 
way train  upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir. 
There  had  been  a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which 
necessitated  traveling,  not  Second-class,  which 
is  only  half  as  dear  as  First-class,  but  by  In- 
termediate, which  is  very  awful  indeed.  There 
are  no  cushions  in  the  Intermediate  class,  and 
the  population  are  either  Intermediate,  which 

107 


108  THE  MAN  WHO 

is  Eurasian,  or  native,  which  for  a  long  night 
journey  is  nasty,  or  Loafer,  which  is  amusing 
though  intoxicated.  Intermediates  do  not 
patronize  refreshment-rooms.  They  carry 
their  food  in  bundles  and  pots,  and  buy  sweets 
from  the  native  sweetmeat-sellers,  and  drink 
the  roadside  water.  That  is  why  in  the  hot 
weather  Intermediates  are  taken  out  of  the 
carriages  dead,  and  in  all  weathers  are  most 
properly  looked  down  upon. 

My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be 
empty  till  I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  huge 
gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  entered,  and,  follow- 
ing the  custom  of  Intermediates,  passed  the 
time  of  day.  He  was  a  wanderer  and  a  vaga- 
bond like  myself,  but  with  an  educated  taste 
for  whiskey.  He  told  tales  of  things  he  had 
seen  and  done,  of  out-of-the-way  corners  of 
the  Empire  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and 
of  adventures  in  which  he  risked  his  life  for 
a  few  days'  food.  "If  India  was  rilled  with 
men  like  you  and  me,  not  knowing  more  than 
the  crows  where  they'd  get  their  next  day's 
rations,  it  isn't  seventy  millions  of  revenue  the 
land  would  be  paying — it's  seven  hundred  mil- 
lions," said  he;  and  as  I  looked  at  his  mouth 
and  chin  I  was  disposed  to  agree  with  him. 
We  talked  politics — the  politics  of  Loaferdom 


WOULD  BE  KING  109 

that  sees  things  from  the  underside  where  the 
lath  and  plaster  is  not  smoothed  off — and  we 
talked  postal  arrangements  because  my  friend 
wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back  from  the  next 
station  to  Ajmir,  which  is  the  turning-off 
place  from  the  Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line  as 
you  travel  westward.  My  friend  had  no  money 
beyond  eight  annas  which  he  wanted  for  din- 
ner, and  I  had  no  money  at  all,  owing  to  the 
hitch  in  the  Budget  before  mentioned.  Fur- 
ther, I  was  going  into  a  wilderness  where, 
though  I  should  resume  touch  with  the  Treas- 
ury, there  were  no  telegraph  offices.  I  was, 
therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in  any  way. 

"We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and 
make  him  send  a  wire  on  tick,"  said  my  friend, 
"but  that'd  mean  inquiries  for  you  and  for  me, 
and  I've  got  my  hands  full  these  days.  Did 
you  say  you  are  traveling  back  along  this  line 
within  any  days?" 

"Within  ten,"  I  said. 

"Can't  you  make  it  eight?"  said  he.  "Mine 
is  rather  urgent  business." 

"I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if 
that  will  serve  you,"  I  said. 

"I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  I 
think  of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi  on 
the  23d  for  Bombay.    That  means  he'll  be  run- 


no  THE  MAN  WHO 

ning  through  Ajmir    about    the  night    of  the 
23d." 

"But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,"  I 
explained. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  he.  "You'll  be 
changing  at  Marwar  Junction  to  get  into  Jodh- 
pore  territory — you  must  do  that — and  he'll  be 
coming  through  Marwar  Junction  in  the  early 
morning  of  the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail.  Can 
you  be  at  Marwar  Junction  on  that  time? 
'Twon't  be  inconveniencing  you  because  I  know 
that  there's  precious  few  pickings  to  be  got 
out  of  these  Central  India  States — even  though 
you  pretend  to  be  correspondent  of  the  Back- 
woodsman." 

"Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick  ?"  I  asked. 

"Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find 
you  out,  and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Bor- 
der before  you've  time  to  get  your  knife  into 
them.  But  about  my  friend  here.  I  must  give 
him  a  word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him  what's  come  to 
me  or  else  he  won't  know  where  to  go.  I  would 
take  it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to 
come  out  of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him 
at  Marwar  Junction,  and  say  to  him : — 'He  has 
gone  South  for  the  week.'  He'll  know  what 
that  means.  He's  a  big  man  with  a  red  beard, 
and  a  great  swell  he  is.    You'll  find  him  sleep- 


WOULD  BE  KING  in 

ing  like  a  gentleman  with  all  his  luggage  round 
him  in  a  Second-class  compartment.  But  don't 
you  be  afraid.  Slip  down  the  window,  and 
say: — 'He  has  gone  South  for  the  week,'  and 
he'll  tumble.  It's  only  cutting  your  time  of 
stay  in  those  parts  by  two  days.  I  ask  you  as 
a  stranger — going  to  the  West,"  he  said,  with 
emphasis. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  said  I. 

"From  the  East,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  hoping 
that  you  will  give  him  the  message  on  the 
Square — for  the  sake  of  my  Mother  as  well 
as  your  own." 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  ap- 
peals to  the  memory  of  their  mothers,  but  for 
certain  reasons,  which  will  be  fully  apparent,  I 
saw  fit  to  agree. 

"It's  more  than  a  little  matter,"  said  he, 
"and  that's  why  I  ask  you  to  do  it — and  now  I 
know  that  I  can  depend  on  you  doing  it.  A 
Second-class  carriage  at  Marwar  Junction,  and 
a  red-haired  man  asleep  in  it.  You'll  be  sure 
to  remember.  I  get  out  at  the  next  station,  and 
I  must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  or  sends  me 
what  I  want." 

"I'll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him,"  I  said, 
"and  for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as  well  as 
mine  I'll  give  you  a  word  of  advice.     Don't 


H2  THE  MAN  WHO 

try  to  run  the  Central  India  States  just  now.  as 
the  correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman. 
There's  a  real  one  knocking  about  here,  and  it 
might  lead  to  trouble." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  simply,  "and  when 
will  the  swine  be  gone?  I  can't  starve  because 
he's  ruining  my  work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of 
the  Degumber  Rajah  down  here  about  his 
father's  widow,  and  give  him  a  jump." 

"What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow, 
then?" 

"Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered 
her  to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam.  I  found 
that  out  myself,  and  I'm  the  only  man  that 
would  dare  going  into  the  State  to  get  hush- 
money  for  it.  They'll  try  to  poison  me,  same 
as  they  did  in  Chortumna  when  I  went  on  the 
loot  there.  But  you'll  give  the  man  at  Marwar 
Junction  my  message  ?" 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  I 
reflected.  I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  of  men 
personating  correspondents  of  newspapers  and 
bleeding  small  Native  States  with  threats  of 
exposure,  but  I  had  never  met  any  of  the  caste 
before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and  generally 
die  with  great  suddenness.  The  Native  States 
have  a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspa- 
pers, which  may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar 


WOULD  BE  KING  113 

methods  of  government,  and  do  their  best  to 
choke  correspondents  with  champagne,  or 
drive  them  out  of  their  mind  with  four-in-hand 
barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that  no- 
body cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administra- 
tion of  Native  States  so  long  as  oppression  and 
crime  are  kept  within  decent  limits,  and  the 
ruler  is  not  drugged,  drunk,  or  diseased  from 
one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  Native 
States  were  created  by  Providence  in  order  to 
supply  picturesque  scenery,  tigers,  and  tall- 
writing.  They  are  the  dark  places  of  the  earth, 
full  of  unimaginable  cruelty,  touching  the  Rail- 
way and  the  Telegraph  on  one  side,  and,  on  the 
other,  the  days  of  Harun-al-Raschid.  When  I 
left  the  train  I  did  business  with  divers  Kings, 
and  in  eight  days  passed  through  many 
changes  of  life.  Sometimes  I  wore  dress- 
clothes  and  consorted  with  Princes  and  Politi- 
cals, drinking  from  crystal  and  eating  from  sil- 
ver. Sometimes  I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and 
devoured  what  I  could  get,  from  a  plate  made 
of  a  flapjack,  and  drank  the  running  water,  and 
slept  under  the  same  rug  as  my  servant.  It 
was  all  in  the  day's  work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert 
upon  the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and 
the  night  Mail  set  me  down  at  Marwar  June- 


H4  THE  MAN  WHO 

tion,  where  a  funny  little,  happy-go-lucky,  na- 
tive-managed railway  runs  to  Jodhpore.  The 
Bombay  Mail  from  Delhi  makes  a  short  halt 
at  Marwar.  She  arrived  as  I  got  in,  and  I  had 
just  time  to  hurry  to  her  platform  and  go  down 
the  carriages.  There  was  only  one  Second- 
class  on  the  train.  I  slipped  the  window,  and 
looked  down  upon  a  flaming  red  beard,  half 
covered  by  a  railway  rug.  That  was  my  man, 
fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him  gently  in  the  ribs. 
He  woke  with  a  grunt,  and  I  saw  his  face  in 
the  light  of  the  lamps.  It  was  a  great  and 
shining  face. 

"Tickets  again?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  I.  "I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is 
gone  South  for  the  week.  He  is  gone  South 
for  the  week!" 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red 
man  rubbed  his  eyes.  "He  has  gone  South  for 
the  week,"  he  repeated.  "Now  that's  just  like 
his  impidence.  Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give 
you  anything? — 'Cause  I  won't." 

"He  didn't,"  I  said,  and  dropped  away,  and 
watched  the  red  lights  die  out  in  the  dark.  It 
was  horribly  cold,  because  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing off  the  sands.  I  climbed  into  my  own  train 
— not  an  Intermediate  Carriage  this  time — and 
went  to  sleep. 


WOULD  BE  KING  115 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a 
rupee  I  should  have  kepi  it  as  a  memento  of  a 
rather  curious  affair.    But  the  consciousness  of 

having  done  my  duty  was  my  only  reward. 

Later  on  I  reilected  that  two  gentlemen  like 
my  friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they  fore- 
gathered and  personated  correspondents  of 
newspapers,  and  might,  if  they  "stuck  up"  one 
of  tlve  little  rat-trap  states  of  Central  India  or 
Southern  Rajputana,  get  themselves  into  seri- 
ous difficulties.  I  therefore  took  some  trouble 
to  describe  them  as  accurately  as  I  could  re- 
member to  people  who  would  be  interested  in 
deporting-  them ;  and  succeeded,  so  I  was  later 
informed,  in  having  them  headed  back  from 
Degumber  borders. 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to 
an  Office  where  there  were  no  Kings  and  no 
incidents  except  the  daily  manufacture  of  a 
newspaper.  A  newspaper  office  seems  to  at- 
tract every  conceivable  sort  of  person,  to  the 
prejudice  of  discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies 
arrive,  and  beg  that  the  Editor  will  instantly 
abandon  all  his  duties  to  describe  a  Christian 
prize-giving  in  a  back-slum  of  a  perfectly  inac- 
cessible village ;  Colonels  who  have  been  over- 
passed for  commands  sit  down  and  sketch  the 
outline  of  a  series  of  ten,  twelve,  or  twenty- 


n6  THE  MAN  WHO 

four  leading  articles  on  Seniority  versus  Se- 
lection; missionaries  wish  to  know  why  they 
have  not  been  permitted  to  escape  from  their 
regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and  swear  at  a 
brother  missionary  under  special  patronage  of 
the  editorial  We ;  stranded  theatrical  companies 
troop  up  to  explain  that  they  cannot  pay  for 
their  advertisements,  but  on  their  return  from 
New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with  interest ; 
inventors  of  patent  punkah-pulling  machines, 
carriage  couplings  and  unbreakable  swords 
and  axle-trees  call  with  specifications  in  their 
pockets  and  hours  at  their  disposal;  tea-com- 
panies enter  and  elaborate  their  prospectuses 
with  the  office  pens ;  secretaries  of  ball-commit- 
tees clamor  to  have  the  glories  of  their  last 
dance  more  fully  expounded;  strange  ladies 
rustle  in  and  say: — "I  want  a  hundred  lady's 
cards  printed  at  once,  please,"  which  is  mani- 
festly part  of  an  Editor's  duty ;  and  every  dis- 
solute ruffian  that  ever  tramped  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road  makes  it  his  business  to  ask  for 
employment  as  a  proof-reader.  And,  all  the 
time,  the  telephone-bell  is  ringing  madly,  and 
Kings  are  being  killed  on  the  Continent,  and 
Empires  are  saying — "You're  another,"  and 
Mister  Gladstone  is  calling  down  brimstone 
upon  the    British    Dominions,    and    the    little 


WOULD  BE  KING  117 

black  copy-boys  are  whining,  "kaa-pi  chay-ha- 
ych"  (copy  wanted)  like  tired  bees,  and  most 
of  the  paper  is  as  blank  as  Modred's  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year. 
There  are  other  six  months  wherein  none  ever 
come  to  call,  and  the  thermometer  walks  inch 
by  inch  up  to  the  top  of  the  glass,  and  the  office 
is  darkened  to  just  above  reading-light,  and 
the  press  machines  are  red-hot  of  touch,  and 
nobody  writes  anything  but  accounts  of  amuse- 
ments in  the  Hill-stations  or  obituary  notices. 
Then  the  telephone  becomes  a  tinkling  terror, 
because  it  tells  you  of  the  sudden  deaths  of  men 
and  women  that  you  knew  intimately,  and  the 
prickly-heat  covers  you  as  with  a  garment, 
and  you  sit  down  and  write: — "A  slight  in- 
crease of  sickness  is  reported  from  the  Khuda 
Janta  Khan  District.  The  outbreak  is  purely 
sporadic  in  its  nature,  and,  thanks  to  the  ener- 
getic efforts  of  the  District  authorities,  is  now 
almost  at  an  end.  It  is,  however,  with  deep  re- 
gret we  record  the  death,  etc." 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the 
less  recording  and  reporting  the  better  for  the 
peace  of  the  subscribers.  But  the  Empires  and 
the  Kings  continue  to  divert  themselves  as  self- 
ishly as  before,  and  the  Foreman  thinks  that  a 
daily  paper  really  ought  to  come  out  once  in 


n8  THE  MAN  WHO 

twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the  people  at  the 
Hill-stations  in  the  middle  of  their  amuse- 
ments say : — "Good  gracious !  Why  can't  the 
paper  be  sparkling?  I'm  sure  there's  plenty 
going  on  up  here." 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as 
the  advertisements  say,  "must  be  experienced 
to  be  appreciated." 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil 
season,  that  the  paper  began  running  the  last 
issue  of  the  week  on  Saturday  night,  which  is 
to  say,  Sunday  morning,  after  the  custom  of  a 
London  paper.  This  was  a  great  convenience, 
for  immediately  after  the  paper  was  put  to  bed, 
the  dawn  would  lower  the  thermometer  from 
96°  to  almost  84°  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  that 
chill — you  have  no  idea  how  cold  is  84°  on  the 
grass  until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it — a  very 
tired  man  could  set  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat 
roused  him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty 
to  put  the  paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King  or  cour- 
tier or  a  courtesan  or  a  community  was  going 
to  die  or  get  a  new  Constitution,  or  do  some- 
thing that  was  important  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world,  and  the  paper  was  to  be  held  open 
till  the  latest  possible  minute  in  order  to  catch 
the  telegram.     It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as 


WOULD  BE  KING  119 

stilling  as  a  June  night  can  be,  and  the  loo,  the 

red-hot  wind  from  the  westward,  was  booming 
among  the  tinder-dry  trees  and  pretending  that 
the  rain  was  on  its  heels.  Now  and  again  a 
spot  of  almost  boiling  water  would  fall  on  the 
dust  with  the  flop  of  a  frog,  but  all  our  weary 
world  knew  that  was  only  pretence.  It  was  a 
shade  cooler  in  the  press-room  than  the  office, 
so  I  sat  there,  while  the  type  clicked  and  clicked 
and  the  night-jars  hooted  at  the  windows,  and 
the  all  but  naked  compositors  wiped  the  sweat 
from  their  foreheads  and  called  for  water. 
The  thing  that  was  keeping  us  back,  whatever 
it  was,  would  not  come  off,  though  the  loo 
dropped  and  the  last  type  was  set,  and  the 
whole  round  earth  stood  still  in  the  choking 
heat,  with  its  finger  on  its  lip,  to  wait  the  event. 
I  drowsed,  and  wondered  whether  the  tele- 
graph was  a  blessing,  and  whether  this  dying 
man,  or  struggling  people,  was  aware  of  the 
inconvenience  the  delay  was  causing.  There 
was  no  special  reason  beyond  the  heat  and 
worry  to  make  tension,  but,  as  the  clock  hands 
crept  up  to  three  o'clock  and  the  machines  spun 
their  fly-wheels  two  and  three  times  to  see  that 
all  was  in  order,  before  I  said  the  word  that 
would  set  them  off,  I  could  have  shrieked 
aloud. 


120  THE  MAN  WHO 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shiv- 
ered the  quiet  into  little  bits.  I  rose  to  go  away, 
but  two  men  in  white  clothes  stood  in  front  of 
me.  The  first  one  said: — "It's  him!"  The 
second  said: — "So  it  is!"  And  they  both 
laughed  almost  as  loudly  as  the  machinery 
roared,  and  mopped  their  foreheads.  "We  see 
there  was  a  light  burning  across  the  road  and 
we  were  sleeping  in  that  ditch  there  for  cool- 
ness, and  I  said  to  my  friend  here,  'The  office  is 
open.  Let's  come  along  and  speak  to  him  as 
turned  us  back  from  the  Degumber  State/  " 
said  the  smaller  of  the  two.  He  was  the  man 
I  had  met  in  the  Mhow  train,  and  his  fellow 
was  the  red-bearded  man  of  Marwar  Junction. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  eyebrows  of  the 
one  or  the  beard  of  the  other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go  to 
sleep,  not  to  squabble  with  loafers.  "What  do 
you  want?"  I  asked. 

"Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you  cool  and  com- 
fortable, in  the  office,"  said  the  red-bearded 
man.  "We'd  like  some  drink — the  Contrack 
doesn't  begin  yet,  Peachey,  so  you  needn't  look 
• — but  what  we  really  want  is  advice.  We  don't 
want  money.  We  ask  you  as  a  favor,  because 
you  did  us  a  bad  turn  about  Degumber." 

I  led    from   the   press-room   to  the  stifling 


WOULD  BE  KING  121 

office  with  the  maps  on  the  walls,  and  the  red- 
haired  man  rubbed  his  hands.  "That's  some- 
thing like,"  said  he.  "This  was  the  proper 
shop  to  come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me  introduce 
to  you  Brother  Peachey  Carnehan,  that's  him, 
and  Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  mc,  and  the 
less  said  about  our  professions  the  better,  for 
wc  have  been  most  things  in  our  time.  Soldier, 
sailor,  compositor,  photographer,  proof-reader, 
street-preacher,  and  correspondents  of  the 
Backwoodsman  when  we  thought  the  paper 
wanted  one.  Carnehan  is  sober,  and  so  am  I. 
Look  at  us  first  and  see  that's  sure.  It  will 
save  you  cutting  into  my  talk.  We'll  take  one 
of  your  cigars  apiece,  and  you  shall  see  us 
light." 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  absolutely 
sober,  so  I  gave  them  each  a  tepid  peg. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  Carnehan  of  the  eye- 
brows, wiping  the  froth  from  his  moustache. 
"Let  me  talk  now,  Dan.  We  have  been  all  over 
India,  mostly  on  foot.  We  have  been  boiler- 
fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty  contractors,  and 
all  that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India  isn't 
big  enough  for  such  as  us." 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office. 
Dravot's  beard  seemed  to  fill  half  the  room 
and  Carnehan's    shoulders  the    other  half,  as 


122  THE  MAN  WHO 

they  sat  on  the  big  table.  Carnehan  continued : 
"The  country  isn't  half  worked  out  because 
they  that  governs  it  won't  let  you  touch  it. 
They  spend  all  their  blessed  time  in  governing 
it,  and  you  can't  lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock, 
nor  look  for  oil,  nor  anything  like  that  without 
all  the  Government  saying — 'Leave  it  alone 
and  let  us  govern.'  Therefore,  such  as  it  is, 
we  will  let  it  alone,  and  go  away  to  some  other 
place  where  a  man  isn't  crowded  and  can  come 
to  his  own.  We  are  not  little  men,  and  there 
is  nothing  that  we  are  afraid  of  except  Drink, 
and  we  have  signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  There- 
fore, we  are  going  away  to  be  Kings." 

"Kings  in  our  own  right,"  muttered  Dravot. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  said.  "You've  been 
tramping  in  the  sun,  and  it's  a  very  warm 
night,  and  hadn't  you  better  sleep  over  the  no- 
tion?   Come  to-morrow." 

"Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck,"  said  Dravot. 
"We  have  slept  over  the  notion  half  a  year,  and 
require  to  see  Books  and  Atlases,  and  we  have 
decided  that  there  is  only  one  place  now  in  the 
world  that  two  strong  men  can  Sa.r-a.-whack. 
They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's 
the  top  right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not 
more  than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawur. 
They  have  two  and  thirty  heathen  idols  there, 


WOULD  BE  KING  123 

and  we'll  be  the  thirty-third.  It's  a  mountain- 
ous country,  and  the  women  of  those  parts  are 
very  beautiful." 

"But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Con- 
track."  said  Carnehan.  "Neither  Women  nor 
Liqu-or,  I  )aniel." 

"And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one 
has  gone  there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any  place 
where  they  fight,  a  man  who  knows  how  to 
drill  men  can  always  be  a  King.  We  shall  go  to 
those  parts  and  say  to  any  King  we  find — 'D' 
you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes?'  and  we  will 
show  him  how  to  drill  men ;  for  that  we  know 
better  than  anything  else.  Then  we  will  sub- 
vert that  King  and  seize  his  Throne  and  es- 
tablish a  Dy-nasty." 

"You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're  fifty 
miles  across  the  Border,"  I  said.  "You  have 
to  travel  through  Afghanistan  to  get  to  that 
country.  It's  one  mass  of  mountains  and  peaks 
and  glaciers,  and  no  Englishman  has  been 
through  it.  The  people  are  utter  brutes,  and 
even  if  you  reached  them  you  couldn't  do  any- 
thing." 

"That's  more  like,"  said  Carnehan.  "If  you 
could  think  us  a  little  more  mad  we  would  be 
more  pleased.  We  have  come  to  you  to  know 
about  this  country,  to  read  a  book  about  it,  and 


124  THE  MAN  WH0 

to  be  shown  maps.  We  want  you  to  tell  us 
that  we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your  books." 
He  turned  to  the  bookcases. 

"Are  you  at  all  in  earnest?"  I  said. 

"A  little,"  said  Dravot,  sweetly.  "As  big  a 
map  as  you  have  got,  even  if  it's  all  blank 
where  Kafiristan  is,  and  any  books  you've  got. 
We  can  read,  though  we  aren't  very  educated." 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the- 
inch  map  of  India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier 
maps,  hauled  down  volume  INF-KAN  of  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  and  the  men  con- 
sulted them. 

"See  here!"  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the 
map.  "Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me  know 
the  road.  We  was  there  with  Roberts's  Army. 
We'll  have  to  turn  off  to  the  right  at  Jagdallak 
through  Laghmann  territory.  Then  we  get 
among  the  hills — fourteen  thousand  feet — fif- 
teen thousand — it  will  be  cold  work  there,  but 
it  don't  look  very  far  on  the  map." 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the 
Oxns.  Carnehan  was  deep  in  the  Encyclo- 
paedia. 

"They're  a  mixed  lot,"  said  Dravot,  reflect- 
ively ;  "and  it  won't  help  us  to  know  the  names 
of  their  tribes.  The  more  tribes  the  more  they'll 
fight,  and  the  better  for  us.  From  Jagdallak 
to  Ashang.     H'mm!" 


WOULD  BE  KING  125 

"But  all  the  information  about  the  country 
is  as  sketchy  and  inaccurate  as  can  be,"  I  pro- 
tested. "No  one  knows  anything-  about  it 
really.  Here's  the  file  of  the  United  Services 
Institute.     Read  what  Bellew  says." 

"Blow  Bellew !"  said  Carnehan.  "Dan, 
they're  an  all-fired  lot  of  heathens,  but  this 
book  here  says  they  think  they're  related  to  us 
English." 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raverty, 
Wood,  the  maps,  and  the  Encyclopaedia. 

"There  is  no  use  your  waiting,"  said  Dravot, 
politely.  "It's  about  four  o'clock  now.  We'll 
go  before  six  o'clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and 
we  won't  steal  any  of  the  papers.  Don't  you 
sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics  and  if 
you  come,  to-morrow  evening,  down  to  the 
Serai  we'll  say  good-bye  to  you." 

"You  are  two  fools,"  I  answered.  "You'll 
be  turned  back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the 
minute  you  set  foot  in  Afghanistan.  Do  you 
want  any  money  or  a  recommendation  down- 
country  ?  I  can  help  you  to  the  chance  of  work 
next  week." 

"Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  our- 
selves, thank  you,"  said  Dravot.  "It  isn't  so 
easy  being  a  King  as  it  looks.  When  we've  got 
our    Kingdom  in  going  order  we'll    let    you 


126  THE  MAN  WHO 

know,  and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to  gov- 
ern it." 

"Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like 
that?"  said  Carnehan,  with  subdued  pride, 
showing  me  a  greasy  half-sheet  of  note-paper 
on  which  was  written  the  following.  I  copied 
it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curiosity : 

This  Contract  between  me  and  y'ou  persuing 
witnesseth  in  the  name  of  God — Amen  and  so 
forth. 

{One)   That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  mat- 
ter together:  i.  e.,  to  be  Kings  of 
Kafiristan. 
(Two)   That  you  and  me   will   not,    while 
this  matter  is  being  settled,  look  at 
any    Liquor,    nor    any     Woman, 
black,  white  or  brozvn,  so  as  to  get 
mixed  up  with    one   or   the  other 
harmful. 
{Three)   That  zvc  conduct  ourselves  with  dig- 
nity and  discretion   and  if   one  of 
us  gets  into  trouble  the  other  will 
stay  by  him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 
Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 
Daniel  Dravot. 
Both  Gentlemen  at  Large. 


WOULD  BE  KING  127 

"There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article," 
said  Carnehan,  blushing  modestly;  "but  it 
looks  regular.  Now  you  know  the  sort  of  men 
that  loafers  are — we  are  loafers,  Dan,  until  we 
get  out  of  India — and  do  you  think  that  we 
would  sign  a  Contrack  like  that  unless  we  was 
in  earnest  ?  We  have  kept  away  from  the  two 
things  that  make  life  worth  having." 

"You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if 
you  are  going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure. 
Don't  set  the  office  on  fire,"  I  said,  "and  go 
away  before  nine  o'clock." 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and 
making  notes  on  the  back  of  the  "Contrack." 
"Be  sure  to  come  down  to  the  Serai  to-mor- 
row," were  their  parting  words. 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four- 
square sink  of  humanity  where  the  strings  of 
camels  and  horses  from  the  North  load  and 
unload.  All  the  nationalities  of  Central  Asia 
may  be  found  there,  and  most  of  the  folk  of 
India  proper.  Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet 
Bengal  and  Bombay,  and  try  to  draw  eye- 
teeth.  You  can  buy  ponies,  turquoises,  Persian 
pussy-cats,  saddle-bags,  fat-tailed  sheep  and 
musk  in  the  Kumharsen  Serai,  and  get  many 
strange  things  for  nothing.  In  the  afternoon 
I  went  down  there  to  see  whether  my  friends 


128  THE  MAN  WHO 

intended  to  keep  their  word  or  were  lying 
about  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and 
rags  stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a  child's 
paper  whirligig.  Behind  was  his  servant  bend- 
ing under  the  load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys. 
The  two  were  loading  up  two  camels,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched  them  with 
shrieks  of  laughter. 

"The  priest  is  mad,"  said  a  horse-dealer  to 
me.  "He  is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell  toys  to 
the  Amir.  He  will  either  be  raised  to  honor  or 
have  his  head  cut  off.  He  came  in  here  this 
morning  and  has  been  behaving  madly  ever 
since." 

"The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of 
God,"  stammered  a  flat-cheeked  Usbeg  in  bro- 
ken Hindi.     "They  foretell  future  events." 

"Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my 
caravan  would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shin- 
waris  almost  within  shadow  of  the  Pass!" 
grunted  the  Eusufzai  agent  of  a  Rajputana 
trading-house  whose  goods  had  been  felon- 
iously diverted  into  the  hands  of  other  robbers 
just  across  the  Border,  and  whose  misfortunes 
were  the  laughing-stock  of  the  bazar.  "Ohe, 
priest,  whence  come  you  and  whither  do  you 
go?" 


WOULD  BE  KING  129 

"From  Roum  have  \  come,"  shouted  the 
priest,  waving  his  whirligig;  "from  Roum, 
blown  by  the  breath  of  a  hundred  devils  across 
the  sea!  O  thieves,  robbers,  liars,  the  blessing 
of  Pir  Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and  perjurers! 
Who  will  take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the 
North  to  sell  charms  that  arc  never  still  to  the 
Amir?  The  camels  shall  not  gall,  the  suns  shall 
ii« -t  fall  sick,  and  the  wives  shall  remain  faith- 
ful while  they  are  away,  of  the  men  who  give 
me  place  in  their  caravan.  Who  will  assist  me 
to  slipper  the  King  of  the  Roos  with  a  golden 
slipper  with  a  silver  heel?  The  protection  of 
Pir  Khan  be  upon  his  labors!"  He  spread  ou1 
the  skirts  of  his  gaberdine  and  pirouetted  be- 
tween the  lines  of  tethered  horses. 

"There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawur  to 
Kabul  in  twenty  days,  Huzrut,"  said  the  Eu- 
sufzai  trader.  "My  camels  go  therewith.  Do 
thou  also  go  and  bring  us  good-luck." 

"I  will  go  even  now !"  shouted  the  priest. 
"I  will  depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and  be 
at  Pashawur  in  a  day !  Ho !  Hazar  Mir  Khan," 
he  yelled  to  his  servant,  "drive  out  the  camels, 
but  let  me  first  mount  my  own." 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it 
knelt,  and,  turning  round  to  me,  cried : — 
"Come  thou  also,  Sahib,  a  little  along  the  road, 


130  THE  MAN  WHO 

and  I  will  sell  thee  a  charm — an  amulet  that 
shall  make  thee  King  of  Kafiristan." 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  fol- 
lowed the  two  camels  out  of  the  Serai  till  we 
reached  open  road  and  the  priest  halted. 

"What  d'  you  think  o'  that?"  said  he  in 
English.  "Carnehan  can't  talk  their  patter,  so 
I've  made  him  my  servant.  He  makes  a  hand- 
some servant.  'Tisn't  for  nothing  that  I've 
been  knocking  about  the  country  for  fourteen 
years.  Didn't  I  do  that  talk  neat  ?  We'll  hitch 
on  to  a  caravan  at  Peshawur  till  we  get  to  Jag- 
dallak,  and  then  we'll  see  if  we  can  get  don- 
keys for  our  camels,  and  strike  into  Kafiristan. 
Whirligigs  for  the  Amir,  O  Lor!  Put  your 
hand  under  the  camel-bags  and  tell  me  what 
you  feel." 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and 
another. 

"Twenty  of  'em,"  said  Dravot,  placidly. 
"Twenty  of  'em,  and  ammunition  to  corre- 
spond, under  the  whirligigs  and  the  mud  dolls." 

"Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with 
those  things !"  I  said.  "A  Martini  is  worth  her 
weight  in  silver  among  the  Pathans." 

"Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital — every 
rupee  we  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal — are  in- 
vested on  these  two  camels,"  said  Dravot.  "We 


WOULD  BE  KING  131 

won't  get  caught.  We're  going  through  the 
Khaiber  with  a  regular  caravan.  Who'd  touch 
a  poor  mad  priest?" 

"Have  you  got  everything  you  want?"  I 
asked,  overcome  with  astonishment. 

"Not  yet,  hut  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  me- 
mento of  your  kindness,  Brother.  Yon  did  me 
a  service  yesterday,  and  thai  time  in  Marwar. 
Half  my  Kingdom  shall  you  have,  as  the  say- 
in-  is."  I  slipped  a  small  charm  compass  from 
my  watch-chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the  priest. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Dravot,  giving  me  hand 
cautiously.  "It's  the  last  time  we'll  shake  hands 
with  an  Englishman  these  many  days.  Shake 
hands  with  him,  Carnehan,"  he  cried,  as  the 
second  camel  passed  me. 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands. 
Then  the  camels  passed  away  along  the  dusty 
road,  and  I  was  left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye 
could  detect  no  failure  in  the  disguises.  The 
scene  in  Serai  attested  that  they  were  complete 
to  the  native  mind.  There  was  just  the  chance, 
therefore,  that  Carnehan  and  Dravot  would  he 
able  to  wander  through  Afghanistan  without 
detection.  But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death, 
certain  and  awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  friend  of  mine,  giv- 
ing me  the  news  of  the  day  from  Peshawur, 


1 32  THE  MAN  WHO 

wound  up  his  letter  with: — "There  has  been 
much  laughter  here  on  account  of  a  certain 
mad  priest  who  is  going  in  his  estimation  to  sell 
petty  gauds  and  insignificant  trinkets  which 
he  ascribes  as  great  charms  to  H.  H.  the  Amir 
of  Bokhara.  He  passed  through  Peshawur  and 
associated  himself  to  the  Second  Summer  cara- 
van that  goes  to  Kabul.  The  merchants  are 
pleased,  because  through  superstition  they  im- 
agine that  such  mad  fellows  bring  good-for- 
tune." 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I 
would  have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night,  a 
real  King  died  in  Europe,  and  demanded  an 
obituary  notice. 

^c  ^c  H«  ^  ^  ^ 

The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the 
same  phases  again  and  again.  Summer  passed 
and  winter  thereafter,  and  came  and  passed 
again.  The  daily  paper  continued  and  I  with 
it,  and  upon  the  third  summer  there  fell  a  hot 
night,  a  night-issue,  and  a  strained  waiting  for 
something  to  be  telegraphed  from  the  other 
side  of  the  world,  exactly  as  had  happened  be- 
fore. A  few  great  men  had  died  in  the  past 
two  years,  the  machines  worked  with  more 
clatter,  and  some  of  the  trees  in  the  Office  gar- 
den were  a  few  feet  taller.  But  that  was  all 
the  difference. 


WOULD  BE  KING  133 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went 
through  just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already  de- 
scribed. The  nervous  tension  was  stronger 
than  it  had  been  two  years  before,  and  I  felt 
the  heat  more  acutely.  At  three  o'clock  I  cried, 
"Print  off,"  and  turned  to  go,  when  there  crept 
to  my  chair  what  was  left  of  a  man.  He  was 
bent  into  a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between 
his  shoulders,  and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over 
the  other  like  a  bear.  I  could  hardly  see 
whether  he  walked  or  crawled — this  rag- 
wrapped,  whining  cripple  who  addressed  me  by 
name,  crying  that  he  was  come  back.  "Can  you 
give  me  a  drink?"  he  whimpered.  "For  the 
Lord's  sake,  give  me  a  drink!" 

1  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following 
with  groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  he  gasped,  dropping 
into  a  chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn  face, 
surmounted  by  a  shock  of  grey  hair,  to  the 
light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had  I 
seen  eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an 
inch-broad  black  band,  but  for  the  life  of  me 
I  could  not  tell  where. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  I  said,  handing  him  the 
whiskey.     "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shiv- 
ered in  spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 


i34  THE  MAN  WHO 

"I've  come  back,"  he  repeated;  "and  I  was 
the  King  of  Kafiristan — me  and  Dravot — 
crowned  Kings  we  was !  In  this  office  we  set- 
tled it — you  setting  there  and  giving  us  the 
books.  I  am  Peachey — Peachey  Taliaferro 
Carnehan,  and  you've  been  setting  here  ever 
since — O  Lord!" 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and  ex- 
pressed my  feelings  accordingly. 

"It's  true,"  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry 
cackle,  nursing  his  feet,  which  were  wrapped 
in  rags.  "True  as  gospel.  Kings  we  were, 
with  crowns  upon  our  heads — me  and  Dravot 
— poor  Dan — oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would 
never  take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of 
him!" 

"Take  the  whiskey,"  I  said,  "and  take  your 
own  time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect  of 
everything  from  beginning  to  end.  You  got 
across  the  border  on  your  camels,  Dravot 
dressed  as  a  mad  priest  and  you  his  servant. 
Do  you  remember  that?" 

"I  ain't  mad — yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way 
soon.  Of  course  I  remember.  Keep  looking 
at  me,  or  maybe  my  words  will  go  all  to  pieces. 
Keep  looking  at  me  in  my  eyes  and  don't  say 
anything." 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face 


WOULD  BE  KING  135 

as  steadily  as  I  could.  He  dropped  one  hand 
upon  the  table  and  I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist. 
It  was  twisted  like  a  bird's  claw,  and  upon  the 
back  was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond-shaped  scar. 

"No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me"  said 
Carnehan. 

"That  comes  afterward,  but  for  the  Lord's 
sake  don't  distrack  me.  We  left  with  that  cara- 
van, me  and  Dravot  playing  all  sorts  of  antics 
to  amuse  the  people  we  were  with.  Dravot 
used  to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings  when 
all  the  people  was  cooking  their  dinners — 
cooking  their  dinners,  and  .  .  .  what  did  they 
do  then?  They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that 
went  into  Dravot's  beard,  and  we  all  laughed 
— fit  to  die.  Little  red  fires  they  was,  going 
into  Dravot's  big  red  beard — so  funny."  His 
eyes  left  mine  and  he  smiled  foolishly. 

"You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that 
caravan,"  I  said,  at  a  venture,  "after  you  had 
lit  those  fires.  To  Jagdallak,  where  you  turned 
off  to  try  to  get  into  Kafiristan." 

"No,  we  didn't  neither.  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  We  turned  off  before  Jagdallak,  be- 
cause we  heard  the  roads  was  good.  But  they 
wasn't  good  enough  for  our  two  camels — 
mine  and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  caravan, 
Dravot  took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too, 


136  THE  MAN  WHO 

and  said  we  would  be  heathen,  because  the 
Kafirs  didn't  allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to 
them.  So  we  dressed  betwixt  and  between,  and 
such  a  sight  as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never  saw  yet 
nor  expect  to  see  again.  He  burned  half  his 
beard,  and  slung  a  sheep-skin  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  shaved  his  head  into  patterns.  He 
shaved  mine,  too,  and  made  me  wear  outrage- 
ous things  to  look  like  a  heathen.  That  was  in 
a  most  mountaineous  country,  and  our  camels 
couldn't  go  along  any  more  because  of  the 
mountains.  They  were  tall  and  black,  and 
coming  home  I  saw  them  fight  like  wild  goats 
— there  are  lots  of  goats  in  Kafiristan.  And 
these  mountains,  they  never  keep  still,  no  more 
than  goats.  Always  fighting  they  are,  and  don't 
let  you  sleep  at  night." 

"Take  some  more  whiskey,"  I  said,  very 
slowly.  "What  did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot  do 
when  the  camels  could  go  no  further  because 
of  the  rough  roads  that  led  into  Kafiristan?" 

"What  did  which  do?  There  was  a  party 
called  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was 
with  Dravot.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  him?  He 
died  out  there  in  the  cold.  Slap  from  the 
bridge  fell  old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting  in 
the  air  like  a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can  sell 
to  the  Amir — No ;  they  was  two  for  three  ha'- 


WOULD  BE  KING  137 

pence,  those  whirligig's,  or  I  am  much  mistaken 
and  woful  sore.  And  then  these  camels  were 
no  use,  and  Peachey  said  to  Dravot — 'For  the 
Lord's  sake,  let's  get  out  of  this  before  our 
heads  are  chopped  oil','  and  with  that  they 
killed  the  camels  all  among  the  mountains,  not 
having  anything  in  particular  to  eat,  hut  first 
they  took  off  the  boxes  with  the  guns  and  the 
ammunition,  till  two  men  came  along  driving 
four  mules.  Dravot  up  and  dances  in  front  of 
them,  singing, — 'Sell  me  four  mules.'  Says 
the  first  man, — 'If  you  are  rich  enough  to  buy, 
you  are  rich  enough  to  rob;'  but  before  ever 
he  could  put  his  hand  to  his  knife,  Dravot 
breaks  his  neck  over  his  knee,  and  the  other 
party  runs  away.  So  Carnehan  loaded  the 
mules  with  the  rifles  that  was  taken  off  the 
camels,  and  together  we  starts  forward  into 
those  bitter  cold  mountaineous  parts,  and  never 
a  road  broader  than  the  back  of  your  hand." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him 
if  he  could  remember  the  nature  of  the  country 
through  which  he  had  journeyed. 

"I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but 
my  head  isn't  as  good  as  it  might  be.  They 
drove  nails  through  it  to  make  me  hear  better 
how  Dravot  died.  The  country  was  mountaine- 
ous and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and  the 


138  THE  MAN  WHO 

inhabitants  was  dispersed  and  solitary.  They 
went  up  and  up,  and  down  and  down,  and  that 
other  party,  Carnehan,  was  imploring  of  Dra- 
vot  not  to  sing  and  whistle  so  loud,  for  fear  of 
bringing  down  the  tremenjus  avalanches.  But 
Dravot  says  that  if  a  King  couldn't  sing  it 
wasn't  worth  being  King,  and  whacked  the 
mules  over  the  rump,  and  never  took  no  heed 
for  ten  cold  days.  We  came  to  a  big  level  val- 
ley all  among  the  mountains,  and  the  mules 
were  near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not  having 
anything  in  special  for  them  or  us  to  eat.  We 
sat  upon  the  boxes,  and  played  odd  and  even 
with  the  cartridges  that  was  jolted  out. 

"Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran 
down  that  valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with 
bows  and  arrows,  and  the  row  was  tremenjus. 
They  was  fair  men — fairer  than  you  or  me — 
with  yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built. 
Says  Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns — 'This  is 
the  beginning  of  the  business.  We'll  fight  for 
the  ten  men,'  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles 
at  the  twenty  men,  and  drops  one  of  them  at 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  we 
was  sitting.  The  other  men  began  to  run,  but 
Carnehan  and  Dravot  sits  on  the  boxes  picking 
them  off  at  all  ranges,  up  and  down  the  valley. 
Then  we  goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that  had  run 


WOULD  BE  KING  139 

across  the  snow  too,  and  they  fires  a  footy  little 
arrow  at  us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their 
heads  and  they  all  falls  clown  flat.  Then  he 
walks  over  and  kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts 
them  up  and  shakes  hands  all  round  to  make 
them  friendly  like.  He  calls  them  and  gives 
them  the  boxes  to  carry,  and  waves  his  hand 
for  all  the  world  as  though  he  was  King  al- 
ready. They  takes  the  boxes  and  him  across 
the  valley  and  up  the  hill  into  a  pine  wood  on 
the  top,  where  there  was  half  a  dozen  big  stone 
idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to  the  biggest — a  fellow 
they  call  Imbra — and  lays  a  rifle  and  a  cart- 
ridge at  his  feet,  rubbing  his  nose  respectful 
with  his  own  nose,  patting  him  on  the  head, 
and  saluting  in  front  of  it.  He  turns  round  to 
the  men  and  nods  his  head,  and  says, — 'That's 
all  right.  I'm  in  the  know  too,  and  all  these 
old  jim-jams  are  my  friends.'  Then  he  opens 
his  mouth  and  points  down  it,  and  when  the 
first  man  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'No ;'  and 
when  the  second  man  brings  him  food,  he  says 
— 'No :'  but  when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the 
boss  of  the  village  brings  him  food,  he  says — 
'Yes ;'  very  haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That 
was  how  we  came  to  our  first  village,  without 
any  trouble,  just  as  though  we  had  tumbled 
from  the  skies.     But  we  tumbled  from  one  of 


i4o  THE  MAN  WHO 

those  damned  rope-bridges,  you  see,  and  you 
couldn't  expect  a  man  to  laugh  much  after 
that." 

"Take  some  more  whiskey  and  go  on,"  I 
said.  "That  was  the  first  village  you  came 
into.    How  did  you  get  to  be  King?" 

"I  wasn't  King,"  said  Carnehan.  "Dravot 
he  was  the  King,  and  a  handsome  man  he 
looked  with  the  gold  crown  on  his  head  and  all. 
Him  and  the  other  party  stayed  in  that  village, 
and  every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the  side  of 
old  Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  wor- 
shipped. That  was  Dravot's  order.  Then  a 
lot  of  men  came  into  the  valley,  and  Carnehan 
and  Dravot  picks  them  off  with  the  rifles  be- 
fore they  knew  where  they  was,  and  runs  down 
into  the  valley  and  up  again  the  other  side,  and 
finds  another  village,  same  as  the  first  one,  and 
the  people  all  falls  down  flat  on  their  faces,  and 
Dravot  says, — 'Now  what  is  the  trouble  be- 
tween you  two  villages  ?'  and  the  people  points 
to  a  woman,  as  fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  car- 
ried off,  and  Dravot  takes  her  back  to  the  first 
village  and  counts  up  the  dead — eight  there 
was.  For  each  dead  man  Dravot  pours  a  little 
milk  on  the  ground  and  waves  his  arms  like  a 
whirligig  and  'That's  all  right,'  says  he.  Then 
he  and  Carnehan  takes  the  bigf  boss  of  each  vil- 


WOULD  BERING  141 

lage  by  the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the 
valley,  and  shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line 
with  a  spear  right  down  the  valley,  and  gives 
each  a  sod  of  turf  from  both  sides  o'  the  line. 
Then  all  the  people  comes  down  and  sin  mis  like 
the  devil  and  all,  and  Dravot  says, — 'Go  and 
dig  the  land,  and  he  fruitful  and  multiply,' 
which  they  did,  though  they  didn't  understand. 
Then  we  asks  the  names  of  things  in  their 
lingo — bread  and  water  and  fire  and  idols  and 
such,  and  Dravot  leads  the  priest  of  each  vil- 
lage up  to  the  idol,  and  says  he  must  sit  there 
and  judge  the  people,  and  if  anything  goes 
wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

"Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  land 
in  the  valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much  prettier, 
and  the  priests  heard  all  the  complaints  and 
told  Dravot  in  dumb  show  what  it  was  about. 
'That's  just  the  beginning.'  says  Dravot.  'They 
think  we're  Gods.'  He  and  Carnehan  picks 
out  twenty  good  men  and  shows  them  how  to 
click  off  a  rifle,  and  form  fours,  and  advance  in 
line,  and  they  was  very  pleased  to  do  so,  and 
clever  to  see  the  hang  of  it.  Then  he  takes  out 
his  pipe  and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves  one  at 
one  village  and  one  at  the  other,  and  off  we 
two  goes  to  see  what  was  to  be  done  in  the 
next  valley.    That  was  all  rock,  and  there  was 


142  THE  MAN  WHO 

a  little  village  there,  and  Carnehan  says, — 
'Send  'em  to  the  old  valley  to  plant,'  and  takes 
'em  there  and  gives  'em  some  land  that  wasn't 
took  before.  They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  we 
blooded  'em  with  a  kid  before  letting  'em  into 
the  new  Kingdom.  That  was  to  impress  the 
people,  and  then  they  settled  down  quiet,  and 
Carnehan  went  back  to  Dravot,  who  had  got 
into  another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and 
most  mountaineous.  There  was  no  people 
there,  and  the  Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot 
shoots  one  of  them,  and  goes  on  till  he  finds 
some  people  in  a  village,  and  the  Army  explains 
that  unless  the  people  wants  to  be  killed  they 
had  better  not  shoot  their  little  matchlocks; 
for  they  had  matchlocks.  We  makes  friends 
with  the  priest  and  I  stays  there  alone  with  two 
of  the  Army,  teaching  the  men  how  to  drill, 
and  a  thundering  big  Chief  comes  across  the 
snow  with  kettle-drums  and  horns  twanging, 
because  he  heard  there  was  a  new  God  kicking 
about.  Carnehan  sights  for  the  brown  of  the 
men  half  a  mile  across  the  snow  and  wings  one 
of  them.  Then  he  sends  a  message  to  the  Chief 
that,  unless  he  wished  to  be  killed,  he  must 
come  and  shake  hands  with  me  and  leave  his 
arms  behind.  The  Chief  comes  alone  first,  and 
Carnehan  shakes  hands  with  him  and  whirls 


WOULD  BE  KING  143 

his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot  used,  and  very 
much  surprised  that  Chief  was  and  strokes  my 
eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan  goes  alone  to  the 
Chief,  and  asks  him  in  dumb  show  if  he  had  an 
enemy  he  hated.  'I  have,'  says  the  Chief.  So 
Carnehan  weeds  out  the  pick  of  his  men,  and 
sets  the  two  of  the  Army  to  show  them  drill, 
and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  men  can  ma- 
noeuvre  about  as  well  as  Volunteers.  So  he 
marches  with  the  Chief  to  a  great  big  plain  on 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  the  Chief's  men 
rushes  into  a  village  and  takes  it;  we  three 
Martinis  firing  into  the  brown  of  the  enemy. 
So  we  took  that  village  too,  and  I  gives  the 
Chief  a  rag  from  my  coat  and  says,  'Occupy 
till  I  come;'  which  was  scriptural.  By  way  of 
a  reminder,  when  me  and  the  Army  was  eigh- 
teen hundred  yards  away,  T  drops  a  bullet  near 
him  standing  on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people 
f:i11<  flat  on  their  faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter 
(o  Dravot.  wherever  he  be  by  land  or  by  sea." 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of 
train  T  interrupted. — "How  could  you  write  a 
letter  up  yonder?" 

"The  letter  ?— Oh !— The  letter !  Keep  look- 
ing at  me  between  the  eves,  please.  It  was  a 
string-talk  letter,  that  we'd  learned  the  way  of 
it  from  a  blind  beggar  in  the  Punjab." 


144  THE  MAN  WHO 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to  the 
office  a  blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and  a 
piece  of  string  which  he  wound  round  the  twig 
according  to  some  cipher  of  his  own.  He  could, 
after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours,  repeat  the  sen- 
tence which  he  had  reeled  up.  He  had  reduced 
the  alphabet  to  eleven  primitive  sounds;  and 
tried  to  teach  me  his  method,  but  failed. 

"I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,"  said  Carnehan ; 
"and  told  him  to  come  back  because  this  King- 
dom was  growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle, 
and  then  I  struck  for  the  first  valley,  to  see  how 
the  priests  were  working.  They  called  the  vil- 
lage we  took  along  with  the  Chief,  Bashkai, 
and  the  first  village  we  took.  Er-Heb.  The 
priests  at  Er-Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they 
had  a  lot  of  pending  cases  about  land  to  show 
me,  and  some  men  from  another  village  had 
been  firing  arrows  at  night.  I  went  out  and 
looked  for  that  village  and  fired  four  rounds 
at  it  from  a  thousand  yards.  That  used  all  the 
cartridges  T  cared  to  spend,  and  I  waited  for 
Dravot,  who  had  been  away  two  or  three 
months,  and  I  kept  my  people  quiet. 

"One  morning  I  heard  the  devil's  own  noise 
of  drums  and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches 
down  the  hill  with  his  Army  and  a  tail  of  hun- 
dreds of  men,  and,  which  was  the  most  amaz- 


WOULD  BE  KING  145 

ing — a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head.  'My 
Gord,  Carnehan,'  says  Daniel,  'this  is  a  tremen- 
jus  business,  and  we've  got  the  whole  country 
as  Ear  as  it's  worth  having1.  1  am  the  son  oi 
Alexander  by  Queen  Semiramis,  and  you're  my 
younger  brother  and  a  God  too!  It's  the  biggest 
thing  we've  ever  seen.  I've  been  marching  and 
fighting  for  six  weeks  with  the  Army,  and 
every  footy  little  village  for  fifty  miles  has 
come  in  rejoiceful ;  and  more  than  that,  I've 
got  the  key  of  the  whole  show,  as  you'll  see, 
and  I've  got  a  crown  for  you !  I  told  'em  to 
make  two  of  'em  at  a  place  called  Shu,  where 
the  gold  lies  in  the  rock  like  suet  in  mutton. 
Gold  I've  seen,  and  turquoise  I've  kicked  out 
of  the  cliffs,  and  there's  garnets  in  the  sands 
of  the  river,  and  here's  a  chunk  of  amber  that 
a  man  brought  me.  Call  up  all  the  priests  and, 
here,  take  your  crown.' 

"One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag  and 
I  slips  the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and  too 
heavy,  but  I  wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered 
gold  it  was — five  pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of 
a  barrel. 

( 'Peachey,'  says  Dravot,  'we  don't  want  to 
fight  no  more.  The  Craft's  the  trick,  so  help 
me!'  and  he  brings  forward  that  same  Chief 
that  I  left  at  Bashkai — Billy  Fish  we  called 


146  THE  MAN  WHO 

him  afterward,  because  he  was  so  like  Billy- 
Fish  that  drove  the  big  tank-engine  at  Mach  on 
the  Bolan  in  the  old  days.  'Shake  hands  with 
him/  says  Dravot,  and  I  shook  hands  and 
nearly  dropped,  for  Billy  Fish  gave  me  the 
Grip.  I  said  nothing,  but  tried  him  with  the 
Fellow  Craft  Grip.  He  answers,  all  right,  and 
I  tried  the  Master's  Grip,  but  that  was  a  slip. 
'A  Fellow  Craft  he  is!'  I  says  to  Dan.  'Does 
he  know  the  word  ?'  -He  does,'  says  Dan,  'and 
all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  miracle !  The  Chiefs 
and  the  priests  can  work  a  Fellow  Craft 
Lodge  in  a  way  that's  very  like  ours,  and 
they've  cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks,  but  they 
don't  know  the  Third  Degree,  and  they've 
come  to  find  out.  It's  Gord's  Truth.  I've  known 
these  long  years  that  the  Afghans  knew  up  to 
the  Fellow  Craft  Degree,  but  this  is  a  miracle. 
A  God  and  a  Grand-Master  of  the  Craft  am  I, 
and  a  Lodge  in  the  Third  Degree  I  will  open, 
and  we'll  raise  the  head  priests  and  the  Chiefs 
of  the  villages.' 

"  Tt's  against  all  the  law,'  I  says,  'holding  a 
Lodge  without  warrant  from  any  one ;  and  we 
never  held  office  in  any  Lodge.' 

"  Tt's  a  master-stroke  of  policy,'  says  Dra- 
vot. Tt  means  running  the  country  as  easy  as 
a  four-wheeled  bogy  on  a  down  grade.     We 


WOULD  BE  KING  147 

can't  stop  to  inquire  now,  or  they'll  turn 
against  us.  I've  forty  Chiefs  at  my  heel,  and 
passed  and  raised  according  to  their  merit  the) 
shall  be.  Billet  these  men  on  the  villages  and 
set-  that  we  run  up  a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The 
temple  of  Imbra  will  do  for  the  Lodge-room. 
The  women  must  make  aprons  as  you  show 
them.  I'll  hold  a  levee  of  Chiefs  to-night  and 
Lodge  to-morrow.' 

"I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't  such 
a  fool  as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft  busi- 
ness gave  us.  I  showed  the  priests'  families 
how  to  make  aprons  of  the  degrees,  but  for 
Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and  marks  was 
made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not 
cloth.  We  took  a  great  square  stone  in  the 
temple  for  the  Master's  chair,  and  little  stones 
for  the  officers'  chairs,  and  painted  the  black 
pavement  with  white  squares,  and  did  what  we 
could  to  make  things  regular. 

"At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on 
the  hillside  with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives  out 
that  him  and  me  were  Gods  and  sons  of  Alex- 
ander, and  Past  Grand-Masters  in  the  Craft, 
and  was  come  to  make  Kafiristan  a  country 
where  every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and  drink 
in  quiet,  and  specially  obey  us.  Then  the  Chiefs 
come  round  to  shake  hands,  and  they  was  so 


148  THE  MAN  WHO 

hairy  and  white  and  fair  it  was  just  shaking 
hands  with  old  friends.  We  gave  them  names 
according  as  they  was  like  men  we  had  known 
in  India — Billy  Fish,  Holly  Wilworth.  Pikky 
Kergan  that  was  Bazar-master  when  I  was  at 
Mhow,  and  so  on  and  so  on. 

"The  most  amazing  miracle  was  at  Lodge 
next  night.  One  of  the  old  priests  was  watch- 
ing us  continuous,  and  I  felt  uneasy,  for  I 
knew  we'd  have  to  fudge  the  Ritual,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  the  men  knew.  The  old  priest 
was  a  stranger  come  in  from  beyond  the  vil- 
lage of  Bashkai.  The  minute  Dravot  puts  on 
the  Master's  apron  that  the  girls  had  made  for 
him,  the  priest  fetches  a  whoop  and  a  howl, 
and  tries  to  overturn  the  stone  that  Dravot 
was  sitting  on.  Tt's  all  up  now,'  I  says.  'That 
comes  of  meddling  with  the  Craft  without  war- 
rant!' Dravot  never  winked  an  eye,  not  when 
ten  priests  took  and  tilted  over  the  Grand- 
Master's  chair — which  was  to  say  the  stone  of 
Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the  bottom 
end  of  it  to  clear  away  the  black  dirt,  and  pres- 
ently he  shows  all  the  other  priests  the  Mas- 
ter's Mark,  same  as  was  on  Dravot's  apron, 
cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the  priests  of  the 
temple  of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The  old 
chap  falls  flat  on  his  face  at  Dravot's  feet  and 


WOULD  BE  KING  149 

kisses  'em.  'Luck  again,'  says  Dravot,  across 
the  Lodge  to  me,  'they  say  it's  the  missing 
Mark  that  no  one  could  understand  the  why  of. 
We're  more  than  safe  now.'  Then  he  bangs 
the  butt  of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says : — 'By 
virtue  of  the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own 
right  hand  and  the  help  of  Peachey,  I  declare 
myself  Grand-Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in 
Kafiristan  in  this  the  Mother  Lodge  o'  the 
country,  and  King  of  Kafiristan  equally  with 
Peachey!'  At  that  he  puts  on  his  crown  and 
I  puts  on  mine — I  was  doing  Senior  Warden 
— and  we  opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample  form. 
It  was  a  amazing  miracle!  The  priests  moved 
in  Lodge  through  the  first  two  degrees  almost 
without  telling,  as  if  the  memory  was  coming 
back  to  them.  After  that,  Peachey  and  Dravot 
raised  such  as  was  worthy — high  priests  and 
Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the 
first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out 
of  him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  according  to 
Ritual,  but  it  served  our  turn.  We  didn't  raise 
more  than  ten  of  the  biggest  men,  because  we 
didn't  want  to  make  the  Degree  common.  And 
they  was  clamoring  to  be  raised. 

"  'In  another  six  months,'  says  Dravot.  'we'll 
hold  another  Communication  and  see  how  you 
are  working.'    Then  he  asks  them  about  their 


■SO 


THE   MAN    WHO 


villages,  and  learns  thai  they  was  fighting  one 
against  the  other  and  were  fair  sick  and  tired 
of  it.  Ami  when  they  wasn't  doing  thai  they 
was  fighting  with  the  Mohammedans.  'You 
can  fighl  those  when  they  come  into  our  coun- 
try/ says  I  )ravot.  'Tell  off  evei  y  tenth  man  ol 
your  tribes  for  a  Frontier  guard,  and  send  two 
hundred  al  a  time  to  tins  valley  to  be  drilled. 
Nobody  is  going  to  be  shot  or  speared  any 
more  so  long  as  he  docs  well,  and  l  Know  thai 
you  won't  cluat  me  because  you're  white  peo- 
ple sons  i)\  Alexander  and  nol  like  com- 
mon, black  Mohammedans.  You  arc  my  peo 
pie  and  by  God,'  says  he,  running  off  into  Eng 
lisli  at  the  end  'I'll  make  a  damned  fine  Na- 
tion of  vmi,  or  I'll  die  in  the  making!' 

"I    can't    tell     all     we    did    for  the    next    six 

months  because  Dravol  did  a  lot  I  couldn't  sec 

the   hail!.;'  oil",   and   he   leained    their   lingo   in   a 

way  I  never  could.     Mv  work  was  to  help  the 

people  plough,  and  now  and  again  go  OUl  with 
some  of  the  Army  and  see  what  the  other  vil- 
lages were  doing,  and  make  'em  throw  rope- 
bridges   across    tin-    ravines    which   CUl    tip   the 

country  horrid.    Dravol  was  very  kind  to  me, 

bul  when  he  walked  Up  and  down  in  the  pine 
w<>od  pulling  that  bloody  vvi\  heard  of  his  with 
both  lists  I  knew  he  was  thinking  plans  1  could 


WOULD  BE  KING  151 

not  advise  him  about,   and   I  jturt   waited  for 
ord<  1 

"But  Dravol  howed  me  disrespect  be- 

fore the  people.    They  were  afraid  of  me  and 
rmy,  bul  they  loved  I  )an.     I  [< 
if  friends  with  tl 
hut  any  one  could  con  the  hill  -  with  a 

complaint  and  Dravot  would  hear  him  out  fair, 
and  call   four  pri<  what 

was  to  be  done.     He  u  ed  to  call  in  Bill) 
from   Bashkai,  and   Pikky   Kergan   from 
and  an  old  Chief  we  called  ECafuzelum — it  was 
like  enough  to  his  real  name— and  hold  1 
ciK  with  'em  when  there  was  any  fighting  to 
in  small  villages.     'I  hat  was  his  Coun- 
cil of  War,  and  the  four  priests  of  Ba 
Shu,  Khawak,  and     Madora    wa  Privy 

Council.     Between  the  lol  of  'em  they  sent  me, 
with    forty  men   and  twenty  rifles,  and 
men  carrying  turquoises,  into    the  Ghorband 
country  to  buy  those  hand-m;  rtini  rifles, 

that  come  out  of  the  Amir's  worl  I  Ka- 

bul, from  one  of  the  Amir's  Herati  regiments 
that  would  have  sold  the  very  teeth  out  of 
mouths  for  turquoi 

"I  stayed  in  Ghorband    a  month,    and 
the  Governor  there  the  nick  of  my  bs 
hush-money,   and   bribed  the    Colonel    of  the 


152  THE  MAN  WHO 

reeiment  some  more,  and,  between  the  two  and 
the  tribes-people,  we  got  more  than  a  hundred 
hand-made  Martinis,  a  hundrd  good  Kohat 
Jezails  that'll  throw  to  six  hundred  yards,  and 
forty  man-loads  of  very  bad  ammunition  for 
the  rifles.  I  came  back  with  what  I  had,  and 
distributed  'em  among  the  men  that  the  Chiefs 
sent  to  me  to  drill.  Dravot  was  too  busy  to  at- 
tend to  those  things,  but  the  old  Army  that  we 
first  made  helped  me,  and  we  turned  out  five 
hundred  men  that  could  drill,  and  two  hundred 
that  knew  how  to  hold  arms  pretty  straight. 
Even  those  cork-screwed,  hand-made  guns  was 
a  miracle  to  them.  Dravot  talked  big  about 
powder-shops  and  factories,  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  pine  wood  when  the  winter  was 
coming  on. 

"  'I  won't  make  a  Nation,'  says  he.  'I'll 
make  an  Empire!  These  men  aren't  niggers; 
they're  English!  Look  at  their  eyes — look  at 
their  mouths.  Look  at  the  way  they  stand  up. 
They  sit  on  chairs  in  their  own  houses.  They're 
the  Lost  Tribes,  or  something  like  it,  and 
they've  grown  to  be  English.  I'll  take  a  census 
in  the  spring  if  the  priests  don't  get  frightened. 
There  must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  'em  in 
these  hills.  The  villages  are  full  o'  little  chil- 
dren.    Two  million  people — two  hundred  and 


WOULD  BE  KING  133 

fifty  thousand  fighting  men — and  all  English! 
They  only  want  the  rifles  and  a  little  drilling. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men,  ready  to 
cut  in  on  Russia's  right  flank  when  she  tries  for 
India!  Peachey,  man,'  he  says,  chewing  his 
beard  in  great  hunks,  'we  shall  be  Emperors — 
Emperors  of  the  Earth!  Rajah  Brooke  will 
be  a  suckling  to  us.  I'll  treat  with  the  Vice- 
roy on  equal  terms.  I'll  ask  him  to  send  me 
twelve  picked  English — twelve  that  I  know  of 
— to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There's  Mackray, 
Sergeant-pensioner  at  Segowli — many's  the 
good  dinner  he's  given  me,  and  his  wife  a  pair 
of  trousers.  There's  Donkin,  the  Warder  of 
Tounghoo  Jail ;  there's  hundreds  that  I  could 
lay  my  hand  on  if  I  was  in  India.  The  Vice- 
roy shall  do  it  for  me.  I'll  send  a  man  through 
in  the  spring  for  those  men,  and  I'll  write  for 
a  dispensation  from  the  Grand-Lodge  for  what 
I've  done  as  Grand-Master.  That — and  all  the 
Sniders  that'll  be  thrown  out  when  the  native 
troops  in  India  take  up  the  Martini.  They'll 
be  worn  smooth,  but  they'll  do  for  fighting  in 
these  hills.  Twelve  English,  a  hundred  thou- 
sand Sniders  run  through  the  Amir's  country 
in  driblets — I'd  be  content  with  twenty  thou- 
sand in  one  year — and  we'd  be  an  Empire. 
When  everything  was  shipshape,  I'd  hand  over 


154  THE  MAN  WHO 

the  crown — this  crown  I'm  wearing  now — to 
Queen  Victoria  on  my  knees,  and  she'd  say: 
"Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel  Dravot."  Oh,  it's  big! 
It's  big,  I  tell  you !  But  there's  so  much  to  be 
done  in  every  place — Bashkai,  Khawak,  Shu, 
and  everywhere  else.' 

"  'What  is  it  ?'  I  says.  'There  are  no  more 
men  coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn.  Look 
at  those  fat,  black  clouds.  They're  bringing 
the  snow.' 

'  Tt  isn't  that,'  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand 
very  hard  on  my  shoulder;  'and  I  don't  wish 
to  say  anything  that's  against  you,  for  no  other 
living  man  would  have  followed  me  and  made 
me  what  I  am  as  you  have  done.  You're  a  first- 
class  Commander-in-Chief,  and  the  people 
know  you;  but — it's  a  big  country,  and  some- 
how you  can't  help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I 
want  to  be  helped.' 

"  'Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then !'  I  said, 
and  I  was  sorry  when  I  made  that  remark,  but 
it  did  hurt  me  sore  to  find  Daniel  talking  so 
superior  when  I'd  drilled  all  the  men,  and  done 
all  he  told  me. 

"  'Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey/  says  Daniel, 
without  cursing.  'You're  a  King,  too,  and  the 
half  of  this  Kingdom  is  yours;  but  can't  you 
see,  Peachev,  we  want  cleverer  men  than  us 


WOULD  BE  KING  155 

now — three  or  four  of  'em,  that  we  can  scatter 
about  for  our  Deputies.  It's  a  hugeous  great 
State,  and  I  can't  always  tell  the  right  thing  to 
do,  and  I  haven't  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and 
here's  the  winter  coming  on  and  all.'  He  put 
half  his  beard  into  his  mouth,  and  it  was  as  red 
as  the  gold  of  his  crown. 

"  'I'm  sorry,  Daniel,'  says  I.  'I've  done  all  I 
could.  I've  drilled  the  men  and  shown  the  peo- 
ple how  to  stack  their  oats  better;  and  I've 
brought  in  those  tinware  rifles  from  Ghorband 
— but  I  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I  take  it 
Kings  always  feel  oppressed  that  way.' 

"  There's  another  thing  too,'  says  Dravot, 
walking  up  and  down.  'The  winter's  coming 
and  these  people  won't  be  giving  much  trouble 
and  if  they  do  we  can't  move  about.  I  want  a 
wife.' 

"  'For  Gord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone !' 
I  says.  'We've  both  got  all  the  work  we  can, 
though  I  am  a  fool.  Remember  the  Contrack, 
and  keep  clear  o'  women.' 

"  'The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as 
we  was  Kings ;  and  Kings  we  have  been  these 
months  past,'  says  Dravot,  weighing  his  crown 
in  his  hand.  'You  go  get  a  wife  too,  Peachey 
— a  nice,  strappin',  plump  girl  that'll  keep  you 
warm  in  the  winter.       They're  prettier  than 


156  THE  MAN  WHO 

English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick  of  'em. 
Boil  'em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and  they'll 
come  as  fair  as  chicken  and  ham.' 

"  'Don't  tempt  me !'  I  says.  'I  will  not  have 
any  dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are  a 
dam'  side  more  settled  than  we  are  now.  I've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  two  men,  and  you've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie  off  a  bit, 
and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco  from 
Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good  liquor ; 
but  no  women.' 

"  'Who's  talking  o'  women  V  says  Dravot. 
'I  said  wife — a  Queen  to  breed  a  King's  son  for 
the  King.  A  Queen  out  of  the  strongest  tribe, 
that'll  make  them  your  blood-brothers,  and 
that'll  lie  by  your  side  and  tell  you  all  the  peo- 
ple thinks  about  you  and  their  own  affairs. 
That's  what  I  want.' 

"  'Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I 
kept  at  Mogul  Serai  when  I  was  a  plate-layer  ?' 
says  I.  *A  fat  lot  o'  good  she  was  to  me.  She 
taught  me  the  lingo  and  one  or  two  other 
things ;  but  what  happened  ?  She  ran  away  with 
the  Station-master's  servant  and  half  my 
month's  pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at  Dadur 
Junction  in  tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  im- 
pidence  to  say  I  was  her  husband — all  among 
the  drivers  in  the  running-shed!' 


WOULD  BE  KING  157 


<<  <-\ 


'We've  done  with  that,'  says  Dravot. 
'These  women  are  whiter  than  you  or  me,  and 
a  Queen  I  will  have  for  the  winter  months.' 

"  Tor  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not' 
I  says.  'It'll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible 
says  that  Kings  ain't  to  waste  their  strength  on 
women,  'specially  when  they've  got  a  new  raw 
Kingdom  to  work  over.' 

"  'For  the  last  time  of  answering,  T  will,'  said 
Dravot,  and  he  went  away  through  the  pine- 
trees  looking  like  a  big  red  devil.  The  low  sun 
hit  his  crown  and  beard  on  one  side  and  the  two 
blazed  like  hot  coals. 

"But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan 
thought.  He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and 
there  was  no  answer  till  Billy  Fish  said  that 
he'd  better  ask  the  girls.  Dravot  damned  them 
all  round.  'What's  wrong  with  me?'  he  shouts, 
standing  by  the  idol  Imbra.  'Am  I  a  dog  or  am 
I  not  enough  of  a  man  for  your  wenches? 
Haven't  I  put  the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this 
country?  Who  stopped  the  last  Afghan  raid?' 
It  was  me  really,  but  Dravot  was  too  angry  to 
remember.  'Who  brought  your  guns?  Who 
repaired  the  bridges?  Who's  the  Grand-Mas- 
ter of  the  sign  cut  in  the  stone?'  and  he 
thumped  his  hand  on  the  block  that  he  used  to 
sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at  Council,  which  opened 


158  THE  MAN  WHO 

like  Lodge  always.  Billy  Fish  said  nothing, 
and  no  more  did  the  others.  'Keep  your  hair 
on,  Dan,'  said  I;  'and  ask  the  girls.  That's 
how  it's  done  at  Home,  and  these  people  are 
quite  English.' 

"  The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of 
State,'  says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he 
could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he  was  going  against  his 
better  mind.  He  walked  out  of  the  Council- 
room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at  the 
ground. 

"  'Billy  Fish,'  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  Bashkai, 
'what's  the  difficulty  here?  A  straight  answer 
to  a  true  friend,'  'You  know,'  says  Billy  Fish. 
'How  should  a  man  tell  you  who  know  every- 
thing? How  can  daughters  of  men  marry 
Gods  or  Devils?    It's  not  proper.' 

"I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the 
Bible;  but  if,  after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they 
had,  they  still  believed  we  were  Gods,  it  wasn't 
for  me  to  undeceive  them. 

"  'A  God  can  do  anything,'  says  I.  'If  the 
King  is  fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let  her  die.' 
'She'll  have  to,'  said  Billy  Fish.  'There  are  all 
sorts  of  Gods  and  Devils  in  these  mountains, 
and  now  and  again  a  girl  marries  one  of  them 
and  isn't  seen  any  more.  Besides,  you  two 
know  the  Mark  cut  in  the  stone.  Only  the  Gods 


WOULD  BE  KING  159 

know  that.    We  thought  you  were  men  till  you 
showed  the  sign  of  the  Master.' 

"I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about 
the  loss  of  the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master- 
Mason  at  the  first  go-off;  but  I  said  nothing. 
All  that  night  there  was  a  blowing  of  horns  in 
a  little  dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill,  and 
I  heard  a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of  the 
priests  told  us  that  she  was  being  prepared  to 
marry  the  King. 

"  'I'll  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,'  says 
Dan.  'I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  cus- 
toms, but  I'll  take  my  own  wife.'  'The  girl's  a 
little  bit  afraid,'  says  the  priest.  'She  thinks 
she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  a-heartening  of 
her  up  down  in  the  temple.' 

"  'Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,'  says  Dra- 
vot,  'or  I'll  hearten  you  with  the  butt  of  a  gun 
so  that  you'll  never  want  to  be  heartened 
again.'  He  licked  his  lips,  did  Dan,  and  stayed 
up  walking  about  more  than  half  the  night, 
thinking  of  the  wife  that  he  was  going  to  get  in 
the  morning.  I  wasn't  any  means  comfortable, 
for  I  knew  that  dealings  with  a  woman  in  for- 
eign parts,  though  you  was  a  crowned  King 
twenty  times  over,  could  not  but  be  risky.  I 
got  up  very  early  in  the  morning  while  Dravot 
was  asleep,  and  I  saw  the  priests  talking  to- 


160  THE  MAN  WHO 

gether  in  whispers,  and  the  Chiefs  talking  to- 
gether too,  and  they  looked  at  me  out  of  the 
corners  of  their  eyes. 

"  'What  is  up,  Fish  ?'  I  says  to  the  Bashkai 
man,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and  look- 
ing splendid  to  behold. 

"'I  can't  rightly  say,'  says  he;  'but  if  you 
can  induce  the  King  to  drop  all  this  nonsense 
about  marriage,  you'll  be  doing  him  and  me 
and  yourself  a  great  service.' 

"  That  I  do  believe,'  says  I.  'But  sure,  you 
know,  Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought 
against  and  for  us,  that  the  King  and  me  are 
nothing  more  than  two  of  the  finest  men  that 
God  Almighty  ever  made.  Nothing  more,  I 
do  assure  you.' 

"  'That  may  be,'  says  Billy  Fish,  'and  yet  I 
should  be  sorry  if  it  was.'  He  sinks  his  head 
upon  his  great  fur  cloak  for  a  minute  and 
thinks.  'King,'  says  he,  'be  you  man  or  God  or 
Devil,  I'll  stick  by  you  to-day.  I  have  twenty 
of  my  men  with  me,  and  they  will  follow  me. 
We'll  go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm  blows 
over.' 

"A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and 
everything  was  white  except  the  greasy  fat 
clouds  that  blew  down  and  down  from  the 
north.     Dravot  came  out  with  his  crown  on 


WOULD  BE  KING  161 

his  head,  swinging  his  arms  and  stamping  his 
feet,  and  looking  more  pleased  than  Punch. 

"  'For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan,'  says  I,  in 
a  whisper.  'Billy  Fish  here  says  that  there  will 
be  a  row.' 

"'A  row  among  my  people!'  says  Dravot. 
'Not  much.  Peachey,  you're  a  1'<h>1  not  to  get 
a  wife  too.  Where's  the  girl?'  says  he.  with  a 
voiee  as  loud  as  the  braying  of  a  jackass.  'Call 
up  all  the  Chiefs  and  priests,  and  let  the  Em- 
peror see  if  his  wife  suits  him.' 

"There  was  no  need  to  call  any  one.  They 
were  all  there  leaning  on  their  guns  and  spears 
round  the  clearing  in  the  centre  of  the  pine 
wood.  A  deputation  of  priests  went  down  to 
the  little  temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and  the 
horns  blew  up  fit  to  wake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish 
saunters  round  and  gets  as  close  to  Daniel  as 
he  could,  and  behind  him  stood  his  twenty  men 
with  matchlocks.  Not  a  man  of  them  under 
six  feet.  I  was  next  to  Dravot,  and  behind  me 
was  twenty  men  of  the  regular  Army.  Up 
comes  the  girl,  and  a  strapping  wench  she  was, 
covered  with  silver  and  turquoises,  but  white 
as  death,  and  looking  back  every  minute  at  the 
priests. 

"  'She'll  do,'  said  Dan,  looking  her  over. 
'What's  to  be  afraid  of,  lass?    Come  and  kiss 


1 62  THE  MAN  WHO 

me.'  He  puts  his  arm  round  her.  She  shuts 
her  eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a  squeak,  and  down  goes 
her  face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flaming  red  beard. 

"  'The  slut's  bitten  me !'  says  he,  clapping  his 
hand  to  his  neck,  and,  sure  enough,  his  hand 
was  red  with  blood.  Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his 
matchlock-men  catches  hold  of  Dan  by  the 
shoulders  and  drags  him  into  the  Bashkai  lot, 
while  the  priests  howl  in  their  lingo, — 'Neither 
God  nor  Devil,  but  a  man!'  I  was  all  taken 
aback,  for  a  priest  cut  at  me  in  front,  and  the 
Army  behind  began  firing  into  the  Bashkai 
men. 

"  'God  A-mighty !'  says  Dan.  'What  is  the 
meaning  o'  this  ?' 

"  'Come  back!  Come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish. 
'Ruin  and  Mutiny  is  the  matter.  We'll  break 
for  Bashkai  if  we  can.' 

"I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my 
men — the  men  o'  the  regular  Army— but  it  was 
no  use,  so  I  fired  into  the  brown  of  'em  with  an 
English  Martini  and  drilled  three  beggars  in  a 
line.  The  valley  was  full  of  shouting,  howling 
creatures,  and  every  soul  was  shrieking,  'Not  a 
God  nor  a  Devil,  but  only  a  man !'  The  Bash- 
kai troops  stuck  to  Billy  Fish  all  they  were 
worth,  but  their  matchlocks  wasn't  half  as  good 
as  the  Kabul  breech-loaders,  and  four  of  them 


WOULD  BE  KING  163 

dropped.  Dan  was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he 
was  very  wrathy;  and  Billy  Fish  bad  a  bard 
job  to  prevent  him  running  out  at  the  crowd. 

"  'We  can't  stand,'  says  Billy  Fish.  'Make  a 
run  for  it  down  tbe  valley!  The  whole  place  is 
against  us.'  Tbe  matchlock-men  ran,  and  we 
went  down  the  valley  in  spite  of  Dravot's  pro- 
testations. He  was  swearing  horribly  and  cry- 
ing out  that  be  was  a  King.  Tbe  priests  rolled 
great  stones  on  us,  and  the  regular  Army  bred 
hard,  and  there  wasn't  more  than  six  men,  not 
counting  Dan,  Billy  Fish,  and  Me,  that  came 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  alive. 

"Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in 
the  temple  blew  again.  '  Come  away — for 
Gord's  sake  come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish. 
'They'll  send  runners  out  to  all  tbe  villages  be- 
fore ever  we  get  to  Basbkai.  I  can  protect  you 
there,  but  I  can't  do  anything  now.' 

"My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go 
mad  in  his  head  from  that  hour.  He  stared  up 
and  down  like  a  stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for 
walking  back  alone  and  killing  the  priests  with 
his  bare  hands ;  which  he  could  have  done.  'An 
Emperor  am  I,'  says  Daniel,  'and  next  year  I 
shall  be  a  Knight  of  the  Queen.' 

"'All  right,  Dan,'  says  I;  'but  come  along 
now  while  there's  time.' 


1 64  THE  MAN  WHO 

"  'It's  your  fault,'  says  he,  'for  not  looking 
after  your  Army  better.  There  was  mutiny  in 
the  midst  and  you  didn't  know — you  damned 
engine-driving,  plate-laying,  missionary's-pass- 
hunting  hound!'  He  sat  upon  a  rock  and 
called  me  every  foul  name  he  could  lay  tongue 
to.  I  was  too  heart-sick  to  care,  though  it  was 
all  his  foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

"  T'm  sorry,  Dan,'  says  I,  'but  there's  no  ac- 
counting for  natives.  This  business  is  our 
Fifty-Seven.  Maybe  we'll  make  something  out 
of  it  yet,  when  we've  got  to  Bashkai.' 

"  'Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,'  says  Dan,  'and, 
by  God,  when  I  come  back  here  again  I'll  sweep 
the  valley  so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left !' 

"We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night 
Dan  was  stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow, 
chewing  his  beard  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"  'There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear,'  said  Billy 
Fish.  'The  priests  will  have  sent  runners  to  the 
villages  to  say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why 
didn't  you  stick  on  as  Gods  till  things  was  more 
settled?  I'm  a  dead  man,'  says  Billy  Fish,  and 
he  throws  himself  down  on  the  snow  and  be- 
gins to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

"Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  coun- 
try— all  up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  all, 
and  no  food  either.       The  six    Bashkai    men 


WOULD  BE  KING  165 

looked  at  Billy  Fish  hungry-wise  as  if  they 
wanted  to  ask  something,  but  they  said  never 
a  word.  At  noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat 
mountain  all  covered  with  snow,  and  when  we 
climbed  up  into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  Army 
in  position  waiting  in  the  middle! 

"  The  runners  have  been  very  quick,'  says 
Billy  Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  'They 
are  waiting  for  us.' 

"Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the 
enemy's  side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel  in 
the  calf  of  the  leg.  That  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  He  looks  across  the  snow  at  the  Army, 
and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had  brought  into  the 
country. 

"  'We're  done  for,'  says  he.  'They  are  Eng- 
lishmen, these  people, — and  it's  my  blasted 
nonsense  that  has  brought  you  to  this.  Get 
back,  Billy  Fish,  and  take  your  men  away; 
you've  done  what  you  could,  and  now  cut  for 
it.  Carnehan,'  says  he,  'shake  hands  with  me 
and  go  along  with  Billy.  Maybe  they  won't  kill 
yon.  I'll  go  and  meet  'em  alone.  It's  me  that 
did  it.    Me,  the  King!' 

"'Go!' says  I.  'Go  to  Hell,  Dan.  I'm  with 
you  here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and  we 
two  will  meet  those  folk.' 

"  'I'm  a  Chief.'  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet. 
'I  stay  with  you.    My  men  can  go.' 


1 66  THE  MAN  WHO 

"The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a  sec- 
ond word,  but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me  and 
Billy  Fish  walked  across  to  where  the  drums 
were  drumming  and  the  horns  were  horning. 
It  was  cold — awful  cold.  I've  got  that  cold 
in  the  back  of  my  head  now.  There's  a  lump 
of  it  there." 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two 
kerosene  lamps  were  blazing  in  the  office,  and 
the  perspiration  poured  down  my  face  and 
splashed  on  the  blotter  as  I  leaned  forward. 
Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I  feared  that  his 
mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took  a  fresh 
grip  of  the  piteously  mangled  hands,  and  said : 
"What  happened  after  that?" 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken 
the  clear  current. 

"What  was  you  pleased  to  say?"  whined 
Carnehan.  "They  took  them  without  any 
sound.  Not  a  little  whisper  all  along  the  snow, 
not  though  the  King  knocked  down  the  first 
man  that  set  hand  on  him — not  though  old 
Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown 
of  'em.  Not  a  single  solitary  sound  did  those 
swines  make.  They  just  closed  up  tight,  and 
I  tell  you  their  furs  stunk.  There  was  a  man 
called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of  us  all,  and 
they  cut  his  throat,  Sir,  then  and  there,  like  a 


WOULD  BE  KING  167 

pig;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow 
and  says: — 'We've  had  a  dashed  fine  run  for 
our  money.  What's  coining  next?'  But 
Peachey,  Peachey  Taliaferro,  I  tell  you,  Sir,  in 
confidence  as  betwixt  two  friends,  he  lost  his 
head.  Sir.  No,  he  didn't  neither.  The  King 
lost  his  head,  so  he  did,  all  along  o'  one  of 
those  cunning  rope-bridges.  Kindly  let  me 
have  the  paper-cutter,  Sir.  It  tilted  this  way. 
They  marched  him  a  mile  across  that  snow  to 
a  rope-bridge  over  a  ravine  with  a  river  at  the 
bottom.  You  may  have  seen  such.  They 
prodded  him  behind  like  an  ox.  'Damn  your 
eyes !'  says  the  King.  'D'you  suppose  I  can't 
die  like  a  gentleman  ?'  lie  turns  to  Peachey — 
Peachey  that  was  crying  like  a  child.  'I've 
brought  you  to  this,  Peachey,'  says  he. 
'Brought  you  out  of  your  happy  life  to  be 
killed  in  Kafiristan,  where  you  was  late  Com- 
mander-in-Chief of  the  Emperor's  forces.  Say 
you  forgive  me,  Peachey.'  'I  do,'  says  Peachey. 
'Fully  and  freely  do  I  forgive  you,  Dan.' 
'Shake  hands,  Peachey,'  says  he.  'I'm  going 
now.'  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right  nor 
left,  and  when  he  was  plumb  in  the  middle  of 
those  dizzy  dancing  ropes,  'Cut,  you  beggars,' 
he  shouts ;  and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell,  turn- 
ing round  and  round  and  round  twenty  thou- 


1 68  THE  MAN  WHO 

sand  miles,  for  he  took  half  an  hour  to  fall  till 
he  struck  the  water,  and  I  could  see  his  body- 
caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close 
beside. 

"But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey 
between  two  pine  trees?  They  crucified  him. 
Sir,  as  Peachey's  hand  will  show.  They  used 
wooden  pegs  for  his  hands  and  his  feet;  and 
he  didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and  screamed, 
and  they  took  him  down  next  day,  and  said 
it  was  a  miracle  that  he  wasn't  dead.  They 
took  him  down — poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't 
done  them  any  harm — that  hadn't  done  them 
any  .  .  .  " 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly, 
wiping  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred 
hands  and  moaning  like  a  child  for  some  ten 
minutes. 

"They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in 
the  temple,  because  they  said  he  was  more  of  a 
God  than  old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.  Then 
they  turned  him  out  on  the  snow,  and  told  him 
to  go  home,  and  Peachey  came  home  in  about  a 
year,  begging  along  the  roads  quite  safe;  for 
Daniel  Dravot  he  walked  before  and  said: — 
'Come  along,  Peachey.  It's  a  big  thing  we're 
doing.'  The  mountains  they  danced  at  night, 
and    the    mountains    they   tried   to    fall     on 


WOULD  BE  KING  169 

Peachey's  head,  but  I  >an  he  held  up  his  hand, 
and  Peachey  came  along  bent  double.  He 
never  let  go  of  Dan's  hand,  and  lit.'  never  let  go 
of  Dan's  head.  They  gave  it  to  him  as  a  pres- 
ent in  the  temple,  to  remind  him  not  to  come 
again,  and  though  the  crown  was  pure  gold, 
and  Peachey  was  starving,  never  would 
Peachey  sell  the  same.  Yon  knew  Dravot,  Sir! 
Yon  knew  Right  Worshipful  Brother  Dravot! 
Look  at  him  now!" 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his 
bent  waist;  brought  out  a  black  horsehair  bag 
embroidered  with  silver  thread;  and  shook 
therefrom  on  to  my  table — the  dried,  withered 
head  of  Daniel  Dravot !  The  morning  sun  that 
had  long  been  paling  the  lamps  struck  the  red 
beard  and  blind,  sunken  eyes ;  struck,  too,  a 
heavy  circlet  of  gold  studded  with  raw  tur- 
quoises, that  Carnehan  placed  tenderly  on  the 
battered  temples. 

"You  behold  now,"  said  Carnehan,  "the 
Emperor  in  his  habit  as  he  lived — the  King  of 
Kafiristan  with  his  crown  upon  his  head.  Poor 
old  Daniel  that  was  a  monarch  once!" 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements 
manifold,  I  recognized  the  head  of  the  man  of 
Marwar  Junction.  Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I 
attempted  to  stop  him.    He  was  not  fit  to  walk 


170  THE  MAN  WHO 

abroad.  "Let  me  take  away  the  whiskey,  and 
give  me  a  little  money,"  he  gasped.  "I  was  a 
King  once.  I'll  go  to  the  Deputy  Commis- 
sioner and  ask  to  set  in  the  Poorhouse  till  I 
get  my  health.  No,  thank  you,  I  can't  wait 
till  you  get  a  carriage  for  me.  I've  urgent  pri- 
vate affairs — in  the  south — at  Marwar." 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed 
in  the  direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner's 
house.  That  day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go 
down  the  blinding  hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a 
crooked  man  crawling  along  the  white  dust  of 
the  roadside,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  quavering 
dolorously  after  the  fashion  of  street-singers 
at  Home.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and 
he  was  out  of  all  possible  earshot  of  the  houses. 
And  he  sang  through  his  nose,  turning  his 
head  from  right  to  left: 

"The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  golden  crown  to  gain ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar — 

Who  follows  in  his  train?" 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor 
wretch  into  my  carriage  and  drove  him  off  to 
the  nearest  missionary  for  eventual  transfer  to 
the  Asylum.  He  repeated  the  hymn  twice 
while  he  was  with  me,  whom  he  did  not  in  the 
least  recognize,  and  I  left  him  singing  it  to  the 
missionary. 


WOULD  BE  KING  171 

Two  days  later  I  inquired  after  his  welfare 
of  the  Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 

"He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sunstroke. 
He  died  early  yesterday  morning,"  said  the 
Superintendent.  "Is  it  true  that  he  was  half 
an  hour  bareheaded  in  the  sun  at  midday?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "but  do  yon  happen  to  know  if 
he  had  anything  upon  him  by  any  chance  when 
he  died?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  said  the  Superin- 
tendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests. 


'THE  FINEST  STORY  IN  THE 
WORLD" 


"THE  FINEST   STORY  IN   THE 
WORLD" 

"Or  ever  the  knightly  years  were  gone 
With  the  old  world  to  the  grave, 
I  was  a  king  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  slave." 

— W.  E.  Henley. 

HIS  name  was  Charlie  Mears;  he  was  the 
only  son  of  his  mother,  who  was  a 
widow,  and  he  lived  in  the  north  of  London, 
coming  into  the  City  every  day  to  work  in  a 
bank.  He  was  twenty  years  old  and  suffered 
from  aspirations.  I  met  him  in  a  public  bil- 
liard-saloon where  the  marker  called  him  by 
his  given  name,  and  he  called  the  marker 
"Bullseyes."  Charlie  explained,  a  little  ner- 
vously, that  he  had  only  come  to  the  place  to 
look  on,  and  since  looking  on  at  games  of  skill 
is  not  a  cheap  amusement  for  the  young,  I  sug- 
gested that  Charlie  should  go  back  to  his 
mother. 

That  was  our  first  step  toward  better  ac- 
quaintance. He  would  call  on  me  sometimes 
in  the  evenings  instead  of  running  about  Lon- 

175 


176  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

don  with  his  fellow-clerks ;  and  before  long, 
speaking  of  himself  as  a  young  man  must,  he 
told  me  of  his  aspirations,  which  were  all  lit- 
erary. He  desired  to  make  himself  an  undy- 
ing name,  chiefly  through  verse,  though  he  was 
not  above  sending  stories  of  love  and  death  to 
the  drop-a-penny-in-the-slot  journals.  It  was 
my  fate  to  sit  still  while  Charlie  read  me  poems 
of  many  hundred  lines,  and  bulky  fragments 
of  plays  that  would  surely  shake  the  world. 
My  reward  was  his  unreserved  confidence,  and 
the  self-revelations  and  troubles  of  a  young 
man  are  almost  as  holy  as  those  of  a  maiden. 
Charlie  had  never  fallen  in  love,  but  was  anx- 
ious to  do  so  on  the  first  opportunity;  he  be- 
lieved in  all  things  good  and  all  things  honor- 
able, but,  at  the  same  time,  was  curiously  care- 
ful to  let  me  see  that  he  knew  his  way  about 
the  world  as  befitted  a  bank  clerk  on  twenty- 
five  shillings  a  week.  He  rhymed  "dove"  with 
"love"  and  "moon"  with  "June,"  and  devoutly 
believed  that  they  had  never  so  been  rhymed 
before.  The  long,  lame  gaps  in  his  plays  he 
filled  up  with  hasty  words  of  apology  and  de- 
scription and  swept  on,  seeing  all  that  he  in- 
tended to  do  so  clearly  that  he  esteemed  it  al- 
ready done,  and  turned  to  me  for  applause. 
I  fancy  that  his  mother  did  not  encourage 


IN  TDK  WOULD"  177 

his  aspirations,  ami  I  know  that  his  writing- 
table  at  In  line  was  the  edge  of  his  washstand. 
This  he  told  me  almost  at  the  outset  of  our  ac- 
quaintance; when  he  was  ravaging  my  book- 
shelves, and  a  little  before  I  was  implored  to 
speak  the  truth  as  to  his  chances  of  "writing' 
something  really  great,  you  know."  Maybe  I 
encouraged  him  too  much,  for,  one  night,  he 
called  »>n  me,  his  eyes  flaming  with  excitement, 
and  said  breathlessly : 

"Do  you  mind — can  you  let  me  stay  here  and 
write  all  this  evening?  I  won't  interrupt  you, 
I  won't  really.  There's  no  place  for  me  to 
write  in  at  my  mother's." 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  said,  knowing  well 
what  that  trouble  was. 

"I've  a  notion  in  my  head  that  would  make 
the  most  splendid  story  that  was  ever  writ- 
ten. Do  let  me  write  it  out  here.  It's  stick  a 
notion !" 

There  was  no  resisting  the  appeal.  I  set 
him  a  table ;  he  hardly  thanked  me,  but  plunged 
into  the  work  at  once.  For  half  an  hour  the 
pen  scratched  without  stopping.  Then  Charlie 
sighed  and  tugged  his  hair.  The  scratching 
grew  slower,  there  were  more  erasures,  and 
at  last  ceased.  The  finest  story  in  the  world 
would  not  come  forth. 


178  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"It  looks  such  awful  rot  now,"  he  said, 
mournfully.  "And  yet  it  seemed  so  good  when 
I  was  thinking  about  it.    What's  wrong?" 

I  could  not  dishearten  him  by  saying  the 
truth.  So  I  answered :  "Perhaps  you  don't  feel 
in  the  mood  for  writing." 

"Yes  I  do — except  when  I  look  at  this  stuff. 
Ugh!" 

"Read  me  what  you've  done,"  I  said. 

He  read,  and  it  was  wondrous  bad,  and 
he  paused  at  all  the  specially  turgid  sentences, 
expecting  a  little  approval ;  for  he  was  proud 
of  those  sentences,  as  I  knew  he  would  be. 

"It  needs  compression,"  I  suggested,  cau- 
tiously. 

"I  hate  cutting  my  things  down.  I  don't 
think  you  could  alter  a  word  here  without 
spoiling  the  sense.  It  reads  better  aloud  than 
when  I  was  writing  it." 

"Charlie,  you're  suffering  from  an  alarming 
disease  afflicting  a  numerous  class.  Put  the 
thing  by,  and  tackle  it  again  in  a  week." 

"I  want  to  do  it  at  once.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

"How  can  I  judge  from  a  half-written  tale? 
Tell  me  the  story  as  it  lies  in  your  head." 

Charlie  told,  and  in  the  telling  there  was 
everything  that  his  ignorance  had  so  carefully 


IN  THE  WORLD"  179 

prevented  from  escaping  into  the  written  word. 
I  looked  at  him  and  wondered  whether  it 
were  possible  that  he  did  nol  know  the  orig- 
inality, the  power  of  the  notion  thai  had  come 
in  his  way.  It  was  distinctly  a  Notion  among 
notions.  Men  had  been  puffed  up  with  pride 
by  nutii ms  not  a  tithe  as  excellent  and  practi- 
cable. But  Charlie  babbled  on  serenely,  in- 
terrupting the  current  of  pure  fancy  witli  sam- 
ples of  horrible  sentences  that  he  proposed  to 
use.  I  heard  him  out  to  the  end.  It  would 
be  folly  to  allow  his  idea  to  remain  in  his  own 
inept  hands,  when  I  could  do  so  much  with  it. 
Not  all  that  could  be  done  indeed;  but,  oh  so 
much ! 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  at  last.  "I 
fancy  I  shall  call  it  'The  Story  of  a  Ship.'  " 

"I  think  the  idea's  pretty  good ;  but  you 
won't  be  able  to  handle  it  for  ever  so  long. 
Now  I—" 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  you?  Would 
you  care  to  take  it?  I  should  be  proud."  said 
Charlie,  promptly. 

There  are  few  things  sweeter  in  this  world 
than  the  guileless,  hot-headed,  intemperate, 
open  admiration  of  a  junior.  Even  a  woman 
in  her  blindest  devotion  does  not  fall  into  the 
gait  of  the  man  she  adores,  tilt  her  bonnet  to 


180  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

the  angle  at  which  he  wears  his  hat,  or  inter- 
lard her  speech  with  his  pet  oaths.  And  Char- 
lie did  all  these  things.  Still  it  was  necessary 
to  salve  my  conscience  before  I  possessed  my- 
self of  Charlie's  thoughts. 

"Let's  make  a  bargain.  I'll  give  you  a  fiver 
for  the  notion,"  I  said. 

Charlie  became  a  bank-clerk  at  once. 

"Oh,  that's  impossible.  Between  two  pals, 
you  know,  if  I  may  call  you  so,  and  speaking 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  I  couldn't.  Take  the 
notion  if  it's  any  use  to  you.    I've  heaps  more." 

He  had — none  knew  this  better  than  I — but 
they  were  notions  of  other  men. 

"Look  at  it  as  a  matter  of  business — be- 
tween men  of  the  world,"  I  returned.  "Five 
pounds  will  buy  you  any  number  of  poetry- 
books.  Business  is  business,  and  you  may  be 
sure  I  shouldn't  give  that  price  unless" — 

"Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  said  Charlie, 
visibly  moved  by  the  thought  of  the  books. 
The  bargain  was  clinched  with  an  agreement 
that  he  should  at  unstated  intervals  come  to 
me  with  all  the  notions  that  he  possessed, 
should  have  a  table  of  his  own  to  write  at,  and 
unquestioned  right  to  inflict  upon  me  all  his 
poems  and  fragments  of  poems.  Then  I  said, 
"Now  tell  me  how  you  came  by  this  idea." 


IX  THE  WORLD"  181 

"It  came  by  itself."  Charlie's  eyes  opened 
a  little. 

"Yes,  but  you  told  me  a  great  deal  about 
the  hero  that  you  must  have  read  before  some- 
where." 

"I  haven't  any  time  for  reading,  except 
when  you  let  me  sit  here,  and  on  Sundays  I'm 
on  my  bicycle  or  down  the  river  all  day. 
There's  nothing  wrong  about  the  hero,  is 
there?" 

"Tell  me  again  and  I  shall  understand  clear- 
ly. You  say  that  your  hero  went  pirating. 
1  low  did  lie  live?" 

"lie  was  on  the  lower  deck  of  this  ship-thing 
that  I  was  telling  you  about." 

"What  sort  of  ship?" 

"It  was  the  kind  rowed  with  oars,  and  the 
sea  spurts  through  the  oar-holes  and  the  men 
n  »w  sitting  up  to  their  knees  in  water.  Then 
there's  a  bench  running  between  the  two  lines 
of  oars  and  an  overseer  with  a  whip  walks  up 
and  down  the  bench  to  make  the  men  work." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"It's  in  the  tale.  There's  a  rope  running 
overhead,  looped  to  the  upper  deck,  for  the 
overseer  to  catch  hold  of  when  the  ship  rolls. 
When  the  overseer  misses  the  rope  once  and 
falls   among  the   rowers,   remember  the  hero 


1 82  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

laughs  at  him  and  gets  licked  for  it.  He's 
chained  to  his  oar  of  course — the  hero." 

"How  is  he  chained?" 

"With  an  iron  band  round  his  waist  fixed  to 
the  bench  he  sits  on,  and  a  sort  of  handcuff  on 
his  left  wrist  chaining  him  to  the  oar.  He's  on 
the  lower  deck  where  the  worst  men  are  sent, 
and  the  only  light  comes  from  the  hatchways 
and  through  the  oar-holes.  Can't  you  imagine 
the  sunlight  just  squeezing  through  between 
the  handle  and  the  hole  and  wobbling  about 
as  the  ship  moves?" 

"I  can,  but  I  can't  imagine  your  imagining 
it." 

"How  could  it  be  any  other  way?  Now 
you  listen  to  me.  The  long  oars  on  the  upper 
deck  are  managed  by  four  men  to  each  bench, 
the  lower  ones  by  three,  and  the  lowest  of  all 
by  two.  Remember  it's  quite  dark  on  the  low- 
est deck  and  all  the  men  there  go  mad.  When 
a  man  dies  at  his  oar  on  that  deck  he  isn't 
thrown  overboard,  but  cut  up  in  his  chains  and 
stuffed  through  the  oar-hole  in  little  pieces." 

"Why?"  I  demanded,  amazed,  not  so  much 
at  the  information  as  the  tone  of  command 
in  which  it  was  flung  out. 

"To  save  trouble  and  to  frighten  the  others. 
It  needs  two  overseers  to  drag  a  man's  body  up 


IN  THE  WORLD"  183 

to  the  top  deck;  and  if  the  men  at  the  lower 
deck  oars  were  left  alone,  of  course  they'll 
rowing  and  try  to  pull  up  all  the  benches  by 
all  standing  together  in  their  chains." 

"You've  a  most  provident  imagination. 
Where  have  you  been  reading  about  galleys 
and  galley-slaves?" 

"Nowhere  that  I  remember.  I  row  a  little 
when  I  get  the  chance.  But,  perhaps,  if  you 
say  so,  I  may  have  read  something." 

He  went  away  shortly  afterward  to  deal 
with  booksellers,  and  I  wondered  how  a  bank 
clerk  aged  twenty  could  put  into  my  hands 
with  a  profligate  abundance  of  detail,  all  given 
with  absolute  assurance,  the  story  of  extrava- 
gant and  bloodthirsty  adventure,  riot,  piracy, 
and  death  in  unnamed  seas. 

He  had  led  his  hero  a  desperate  dance 
through  revolt  against  the  overseers,  to  com- 
mand a  ship  of  his  own,  and  ultimate  estab- 
lishment of  a  kingdom  on  an  island  "some- 
where in  the  sea,  you  know,"  and,  delighted 
with  my  paltry  five  pounds,  had  gone  out  to 
buy  the  notions  of  other  men,  that  these  might 
teach  him  how  to  write.  I  had  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  this  notion  was  mine  by 
right  of  purchase,  and  I  thought  that  I  could 
make  something  of  it. 

When  next  he  came  to  me  he  was  drunk- 


1 84  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

royally  drunk  on  many  poets  for  the  first  time 
revealed  to  him.  His  pupils  were  dilated,  his 
words  tumbled  over  each  other,  and  he  wrapped 
himself  in  quotations.  Most  of  all  he  was 
drunk  with  Longfellow. 

"Isn't    it    splendid?      Isn't    it    superb?"    he 
cried,  after  hasty  greetings.    "Listen  to  this — 

"  'Wouldst  thou,' — so  the  helmsman  answered, 
'Know  the  secrets  of  the  sea? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery.' 

By  gum ! 

"  'Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery,' " 

he  repeated  twenty  times,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  and  forgetting  me.  "But  / 
can  understand  it  too,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for  that  fiver. 
And  this ;  listen — 

"  'I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  ships 
And   the   sea-tides   tossing   free, 
And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea.' 

I  haven't  braved  any  dangers,  but  I  feel  as  if 
I  knew  all  about  it." 

"You  certainly  seem  to  have  a  grip  of  the 
sea.    Have  you  ever  seen  it?" 


IN  THE  WORLD"  185 

"When  I  was  a  little  chap  I  went  to  Brigh- 
ton once;  we  used  to  live  in  Coventry,  though, 
before  we  came  to  London.     I  never  saw  it, 

"  'When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  Equinox.'  " 

He  shook  me  by  the  shoulder  to  make  me 
understand  the  passion  that  was  shaking  him- 
self. 

"When  that  storm  comes,"  he  continued,  "I 
think  that  all  the  oars  in  the  ship  that  I  was 
talking  about  get  broken,  and  the  rowers  have 
their  chests  smashed  in  by  the  bucking  oar- 
heads.  By  the  way,  have  you  done  anything 
with   that  notion  of  mine  yet?" 

"No.  I  was  waiting  to  hear  more  of  it  from 
you.  Tell  me  how  in  the  world  you're  so  cer- 
tain about  the  fittings  of  the  ship.  You  know 
nothing  of  ships." 

"I  don't  know.  It's  as  real  as  anything  to 
me  until  I  try  to  write  it  down.  I  was  think- 
ing about  it  only  last  night  in  bed.  after  you 
had  loaned  me  'Treasure  Island ;'  and  I  made 
tip  a  whole  lot  of  new  things  to  go  into  the 
story." 

"What  sort  of  things  ?" 

"About  the  food  the  men  ate ;  rotten  figs  and 
black  beans  and  wine  in  a  skin  bag,  passed 
from  bench  to  bench." 


1 86  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"Was  the  ship  built  so  long  ago  as  that?" 

"As  what?  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
long  ago  or  not.  It's  only  a  notion,  but  some- 
times it  seems  just  as  real  as  if  it  was  true. 
Do  I  bother  you  with  talking  about  it?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  Did  you  make  up  any- 
thing else?" 

"Yes,  but  it's  nonsense."  Charlie  flushed  a 
little. 

"Never  mind;  let's  hear  about  it." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking  over  the  story,  and 
after  a  while  I  got  out  of  bed  and  wrote  down 
on  a  piece  of  paper  the  sort  of  stuff  the  men 
might  be  supposed  to  scratch  on  their  oars 
with  the  edges  of  their  handcuffs.  It  semed  to 
make  the  thing  more  lifelike.  It  is  so  real  to 
me,  y'know." 

"Have  you  the  paper  on  you?" 

"Ye-es,  but  what's  the  use  of  showing  it? 
It's  only  a  lot  of  scratches.  All  the  same,  we 
might  have  'em  reproduced  in  the  book  on  the 
front  page." 

"I'll  attend  to  those  details.  Show  me  what 
your  men  wrote." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  with  a  single  line  of  scratches  upon  it, 
and  I  put  this  carefully  away. 

"What  is  it  supposed  to  mean  in  English?" 
I  said. 


IN  THE  WOULD"  1R7 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  means  'I'm 
beastly  tired.'  It's  nonsense,"  he  repealed, 
"but  all  those  men  in  the  ship  seem  as  real  as 
people  to  me.  Do  do  something  to  the  notion 
soon;  I  should  like  to  see  it  written  and 
printed." 

"But  all  you've  told  me  would  make  a  long 
book.'' 

"Make  it  then.  You've  only  to  sit  down  and 
write  it  out." 

"Give  me  a  little  time.  Have  yon  any  more 
notions?" 

"Not  just  now.  I'm  reading  all  the  books 
I've  bought.     They're  splendid." 

When  he  had  left  I  looked  at  the  sheet  of 
notepaper  with  the  inscription  upon  it.  Then 
I  took  my  head  tenderly  between  both  hands, 
to  make  certain  that  it  was  not  coming  off  or 
turning  round.  Then  .  .  .  but  there  seemed 
to  be  no  interval  between  quitting  my  rooms 
and  finding  myself  arguing  with  a  policeman 
outside  a  door  marked  Private  in  a  corridor  of 
the  British  Museum.  All  I  demanded,  as  po- 
litely as  possible,  was  "the  Greek  antiquity 
man."  The  policeman  knew  nothing  except 
the  rules  of  the  Museum,  and  it  became  neces- 
sary to  forage  through  all  the  houses  and  of- 
fices inside  the  gates.     An  elderly  gentleman 


1 88  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

called  away  from  his  lunch  put  an  end  to  my 
search  by  holding  the  note-paper  between  fin- 
ger and  thumb  and  sniffing  at  it  scornfully. 

"What  does  this  mean?  H'mm,"  said  he. 
"So  far  as  I  can  ascertain  it  is  an  attempt  to 
write  extremely  corrupt  Greek  on  the  part" — 
here  he  glared  at  me  with  intention — "of  an 
extremely  illiterate — ah — person."  He  read 
slowly  from  the  paper,  "Pollock,  Erckmann, 
Tanchnitz,  Henniker" — four  names  familiar 
to  me. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  the  corruption  is 
supposed  to  mean — the  gist  of  the  thing?"  I 
asked. 

"I  have  been — many  times — overcome  with 
weariness  in  this  particular  employment.  That 
is  the  meaning."  He  returned  me  the  paper, 
and  I  fled  without  a  word  of  thanks,  explana- 
tion, or  apology. 

I  might  have  been  excused  for  forgetting 
much.  To  me  of  all  men  had  been  given  the 
chance  to  write  the  most  marvelous  tale  in  the 
world,  nothing  less  than  the  story  of  a  Greek 
galley-slave,  as  told  by  himself.  Small  won- 
der that  his  dreaming  had  seemed  real  to 
Charlie.  The  Fates  that  are  so  careful  to  shut 
the  doors  of  each  successive  life  behind  us  had, 
in  this  case,  been  neglectful,  and  Charlie  was 


IN  THE  WORLD"  189 

looking,  though  that  he  did  nol  know,  where 
never  man  had  been  permitted  to  look  with  full 
knowledge  since  Time  began.  Above  all,  he 
was  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  knowledge  sold 
to  me  for  five  pounds;  and  he  would  retain 
that  ignorance,  for  bank-clerks  do  not  under- 
stand metempsychosis,  and  a  sound  commercial 
education  does  not  include  Greek.  lie  would 
supply  me — here  I  capered  among  the  dumb 
gods  of  Egypt  and  laughed  in  their  battered 
faces — with  material  to  make  my  tale  sure — 
so  sure  that  the  world  would  hail  it  as  an  im- 
pudent and  vamped  fiction.  And  I — I  alone 
would  know  that  it  was  absolutely  and  liter- 
ally true.  I, — I  alone  held  this  jewel  to  my 
hand  for  the  cutting  and  polishing.  Therefore 
T  danced  again  among  the  gods  till  a  police- 
man saw  me  and  took  steps  in  my  direction. 

It  remained  now  only  to  encourage  Charlie 
to  talk,  and  here  there  was  no  difficulty.  But 
I  had  forgotten  those  accursed  books  of  poe- 
try. He  came  to  me  time  after  time,  as  use- 
less as  a  surcharged  phonograph — drunk  on 
Byron,  Shelley,  or  Keats.  Knowing  now  what 
the  boy  had  been  in  his  past  lives,  and  desper- 
atclv  anxious  not  to  lose  one  word  of  his  bab- 
ble, I  could  not  hide  from  him  my  respect  and 
interest.      He  misconstrued  both   into   respect 


190  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

for  the  present  soul  of  Charlie  Mears,  to  whom 
life  was  as  new  as  it  was  to  Adam,  and  inter- 
est in  his  readings ;  and  stretched  my  patience 
to  breaking  point  by  reciting  poetry — not  his 
own  now,  but  that  of  others.  I  wished  every 
English  poet  blotted  out  of  the  memory  of 
mankind.  I  blasphemed  the  mightiest  names 
of  song  because  they  had  drawn  Charlie  from 
the  path  of  direct  narrative,  and  would,  later, 
spur  him  to  imitate  them;  but  I  choked  down 
my  impatience  until  the  first  flood  of  enthu- 
siasm should  have  spent  itself  and  the  boy  re- 
turned to  his  dreams. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  telling  you  what  / 
think,  when  these  chaps  wrote  things  for  the 
angels  to  read?"  he  growled,  one  evening. 
"Why  don't  you  write  something  like  theirs?" 

"I  don't  think  you  are  treating  me  quite 
fairly,"  I  said,  speaking  under  strong  restraint. 

"I've  given  you  the  story,"  he  said,  shortly, 
replunging  into  "Lara." 

"But  I  want  the  details." 

"The  things  I  make  up  about  that  damned 
ship  that  you  call  a  galley?  They're  quite 
easy.  You  can  just  make  'em  up  yourself. 
Turn  up  the  gas  a  little,  I  want  to  go  on  read- 
ing." 

I  could  have  broken  the  gas  globe  over  his 


IX  THE  WOULD"  191 

head  for  his  amazing  stupidity.  T  could  in- 
deed  make   up   things    for  myself   did    I    only 

know  what  Charlie  did  not  know  that  he  knew. 
I'm  since  the  doors  were  shut  behind  me  I 
could  only  wait  his  youthful  pleasure  ami 
strive  to  keep  him  in  good  temper.  <  >ne  min- 
ute's want  of  guard  might  spoil  a  priceless 
revelation:  now  and  again  he  would  toss  his 
hooks  aside  he  kept  them  in  my  rooms,  for 
his  mother  would  have  been  shocked  at  the 
waste  of  good  money  had  she  seen  them — 
and  launched  into  his  sea  of  dreams.  Again 
I  cursed  all  the  poets  of  England.  The  plastic 
mind  of  the  hank-clerk  had  keen  overlaid,  col- 
ored and  distorted  by  that  which  he  had  read, 
and  the  result  as  delivered  was  a  confused 
tangle  of  other  voices  most  like  the  muttered 
song  through  a  City  telephone  in  the  busiest 
part  of  the  day. 

He  talked  of  the  galley — his  own  galley 
had  he  but  known  it — with  illustrations  bor- 
rowed from  the  "Bride  of  Abydos."  He 
pointed  the  experiences  of  his  hero  with  quo- 
tations from  "The  Corsair,"  and  threw  in 
deep  and  desperate  moral  reflections  from 
"Cain"  and  "Manfred,"  expecting  me  to  use 
them  all.  Only  when  the  talk  turned  on  Long- 
fellow were  the  jarring  cross-currents  dumb, 


192  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

and  I  knew  that  Charlie  was  speaking-  the  truth 
as  he  remembered  it. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this?"  I  said  one 
evening,  as  soon  as  I  understood  the  medium 
in  which  his  memory  worked  best,  and,  before 
he  could  expostulate,  read  him  the  whole  of 
'The  Saga  of  King  Olaf!" 

He  listened  open-mouthed,  flushed,  his 
hands  drumming  on  the  back  of  the  sofa 
where  he  lay,  till  I  came  to  the  Song  of  Einar 
Tamberskelver  and  the  verse: 

"Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 
From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered :  'That  was  Norway  breaking 
'Neath  thy  hand,  O  King.'  " 

He  gasped  with  pure  delight  of  sound. 

"That's  better  than  Byron,  a  little,"  I  ven- 
tured. 

"Better?  Why  it's  true!  How  could  he 
have  known?" 

I  went  back  and  repeated: 

"  'What  was  that?'   said  Olaf,  standing 

On  the  quarter-deck, 
'Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 
Of  a  shattered  wreck?'" 

"How  could  he  have  known  how  the  ships 
crash  and  the  oars  rip  out  and  go  s-szp  all 
along  the  line?     Why  only  the  other  night. 


IN  THE  WORLD"  193 

.  .  .  But  go  back  please  and  read  'The 
Skerry  of  Shrieks'  again." 

"No,  I'm  tired.  Let's  talk.  What  hap- 
pened the  other  night?" 

"I  had  an  awful  nightmare  about  that  gal- 
lev  of  ours.  I  dreamed  I  was  drowned  in  a 
fight.  You  see  we  ran  alongside  another  ship 
in  the  harhor.  The  water  was  dead  still  ex- 
cept where  our  oars  whipped  it  up.  You 
know  where  I  always  sit  in  the  galley?"  He 
spoke  haltingly  at  first,  under  a  fine  English 
fear  of  being  laughed  at. 

"No.  That's  news  to  me,"  I  answered, 
meekly,  my  heart  beginning  to  beat. 

"On  the  fourth  oar  from  the  bow  on  the 
right  side  on  the  upper  deck.  There  were 
four  of  us  at  that  oar,  all  chained.  I  remem- 
ber watching  the  water  and  trying  to  get  my 
handcuffs  off  before  the  row  began.  Then  we 
closed  up  on  the  other  ship,  and  all  their  fight- 
ing men  jumped  over  our  bulwarks,  and  my 
bench  broke  and  I  was  pinned  down  with  the 
three  other  fellows  on  top  of  me,  and  the  big 
oar  jammed  across  our  backs." 

"Well?"  Charlie's  eyes  were  alive  and 
alight.  He  was  looking  at  the  wall  behind  my 
chair. 

"I  don't  know  how  we  fought.     The  men 


194  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

were  trampling  all  over  my  back,  and  I  lay- 
low.  Then  our  rowers  on  the  left  side — tied 
to  their  oars,  yo.u  know — began  to  yell  and 
back  water.  I  could  hear  the  water  sizzle,  and 
we  spun  round  like  a  cockchafer  and  I  knew, 
lying  where  I  was,  that  there  was  a  galley 
coming  up  bow-on,  to  ram  us  on  the  left  side. 
I  could  just  lift  up  my  head  and  see  her  sail 
over  the  bulwarks.  We  wanted  to  meet  her 
bow  to  bow,  but  it  was  too  late.  We  could 
only  turn  a  little  bit  because  the  galley  on  our 
right  had  hooked  herself  on  to  us  and  stopped 
our  moving.  Then,  by  gum !  there  was  a 
crash!  Our  left  oars  began  to  break  as  the 
other  galley,  the  moving  one  y'know,  stuck 
her  nose  into  them.  Then  the  lower-deck  oars 
shot  up  through  the  deck  planking,  butt  first, 
and  one  of  them  jumped  clean  up  into  the  air 
and  came  down  again  close  to  my  head." 

"How  was  that  managed?" 

"The  moving  galley's  bow  was  plunking 
them  back  through  their  own  oar-holes,  and  I 
could  hear  the  devil  of  a  shindy  in  the  decks 
below.  Then  her  nose  caught  us  nearly  in  the 
middle,  and  we  tilted  sideways,  and  the  fellows 
in  the  right  hand  galley  unhitched  their  hooks 
and  ropes,  and  threw  things  on  to  our  upper 
deck — arrows,  and  hot  pitch  or  something  that 


IN  THE  WOULD"  195 

stung,  and  we  went  up  and  up  and  up  on  the 
left  side,  and  the  right  side  dipped,  and  I 
twisted  my  head  round  and  saw  the  water 
stand  still  as  it  topped  the  right  bulwarks,  and 
then  it  curled  over  and  crashed  down  on  the 
whole  lot  of  us  on  the  right  side,  and  I  fell  it 
hit  my  back,  and  I  woke." 

"(  >ne  minute,  Charlie.  When  the  sea 
topped  the  bulwarks,  what  did  it  look  like?" 
1  had  my  reasons  for  asking.  A  man  of  my 
acquaintance  had  once  gone  down  with  a  leak- 
ing ship  in  a  still  sea,  and  had  seen  the  water- 
level  pause  for  an  instant  ere  it  fell  on  the 
deck. 

"It  looked  just  like  a  banjo-string  drawn 
tight,  and  it  seemed  to  stay  there  for  years," 
said  Charlie. 

Exactly!  The  other  man  had  said:  "It 
looked  like  a  silver  wire  laid  down  along  the 
bulwarks,  and  I  thought  it  was  never  going  to 
break."  He  had  paid  everything  except  the 
bare  life  for  this  little  valueless  piece  of  knowl- 
edge, and  I  had  traveled  ten  thousand  weary 
miles  to  meet  him  and  take  his  knowledge  at 
second  hand.  But  Charlie,  the  bank-clerk  on 
twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  he  who  had  never 
been  out  of  sight  of  a  London  omnibus,  knew 
it  all.     It  was  no  consolation  to  me  that  once 


196  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

in  his  lives  he  had  been  forced  to  die  for  his 
gains.  I  also  must  have  died  scores  of  times, 
but  behind  me,  because  I  could  have  used  my 
knowledge,  the  doors  were  shut. 

"And  then?"  I  said,  trying  to  put  away  the 
devil  of  envy. 

"The  funny  thing  was,  though,  in  all  the 
mess  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  astonished  or  fright- 
ened. It  seemed  as  if  I'd  been  in  a  good  many 
fights,  because  I  told  my  next  man  so  when 
the  row  began.  But  that  cad  of  an  overseer  on 
my  deck  wouldn't  unloose  our  chains  and  give 
us  a  chance.  He  always  said  that  we'd  all  be 
set  free  after  a  battle,  but  we  never  were;  we 
never  were."  Charlie  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully. 

"What  a  scoundrel !" 

"I  should  say  he  was.  He  never  gave  us 
enough  to  eat,  and  sometimes  we  were  so 
thirsty  that  we  used  to  drink  salt-water.  I  can 
taste  that  salt-water  still." 

"Now  tell  me  something  about  the  harbor 
where  the  fight  was  fought." 

"I  didn't  dream  about  that.  I  know  it  was 
a  harbor,  though ;  because  we  were  tied  up  to 
a  ring  on  a  white  wall  and  all  the  face  of  the 
stone  under  water  was  covered  with  wood  to 
prevent  our  ram  getting  chipped  when  the  tide 
made  us  rock." 


IN  THE  WORLD"  197 

"That's  curious.  Our  hero  commanded  the 
galley,  didn't  he?" 

"Didn'l  he  just!  Tic  stood  by  the  bows  and 
shouted  like  a  good  'un.  I  [e  was  the  man  who 
killed  the  overseer." 

"But  yon  were  all  drowned  together,  Char- 
lie, weren't  yon?" 

"I  can't  make  that  fit  quite,"  he  said,  with 
a  puzzled  look.  "The  galley  must  have  gone 
down  with  all  hands,  and  yet  T  fancy  that  the 
hero  went  on  living  afterward.  Perhaps  he 
climbed  into  the  attacking  ship.  T  wouldn't 
see  that,  of  course.     T  was  dead,  yon  know." 

Tie  shivered  slightly  and  protested  that  he 
conld  remember  no  more. 

I  did  not  press  him  further,  but  to  satisfy 
myself  that  he  lay  in  ignorance  of  the  work- 
ings of  his  own  mind,  deliberately  introduced 
him  to  Mortimer  Collins's  "Transmigration," 
and  gave  him  a  sketch  of  the  plot  before  he 
opened  the  pages. 

"What  rot  it  all  is !"  he  said,  frankly,  at  the 
end  of  an  hour.  "I  don't  understand  his  non- 
sense about  the  Red  Planet  Mars  and  the 
King,  and  the  rest  of  it.  Chuck  me  the  Long- 
fellow again." 

I  handed  him  the  book  and  wrote  out  as 
much  as  I  could  remember  of  his  description 


198  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

of  the  sea-fight,  appealing  to  him  from  time 
to  time  for  confirmation  of  fact  or  detail. 
He  would  answer  without  raising  his  eyes 
from  the  book,  as  assuredly  as  though  all  his 
knowledge  lay  before  him  on  the  printed  page. 
I  spoke  under  the  normal  key  of  my  voice  that 
the  current  might  not  be  broken,  and  I  know 
that  he  was  not  aware  of  what  he  was  saying, 
for  his  thoughts  were  out  on  the  sea  with 
Longfellow. 

"Charlie,"  I  asked,  "when  the  rowers  on  the 
galleys  mutinied  how  did  they  kill  their  over- 
seers?" 

"Tore  up  the  benches  and  brained  'em.  That 
happened  when  a  heavy  sea  was  running.  An 
overseer  on  the  lower  deck  slipped  from  the 
centre  plank  and  fell  among  the  rowers.  They 
choked  him  to  death  against  the  side  of  the 
ship  with  their  chained  hands  quite  quietly, 
and  it  was  too  dark  for  the  other  overseer  to 
see  what  had  happened.  When  he  asked,  he 
was  pulled  down  too  and  choked,  and  the 
lower  deck  fought  their  way  up  deck  by  deck, 
with  the  pieces  of  the  broken  benches  banging 
behind  'em.     How  they  howled!" 

"And  what  happened  after  that?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  hero  went  away — red 
hair  and  red  beard  and  all.  That  was  after  he 
had  captured  our  galley,  I  think." 


IN  THE  WOULD"  199 

The  sound  of  my  voice  irritated  him,  and  he 
motioned  slightly  with  his  left  hand  as  a  man 
does  when  interruption  jars. 

"You  never  told  me  he  was  red-headed  be- 
fore, or  that  he  captured  your  galley,"  I  said, 
after  a  discreet  interval. 

Charlie  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"He  was  as  red  as  a  red  bear,"  said  he,  ab- 
stractedly. "He  came  from  the  north ;  they 
said  so  in  the  galley  when  he  looked  for  row- 
ers— not  slaves,  but  free  men.  Afterward — 
years  and  years  afterward — news  came  from 
another  ship,  or  else  he  came  back" — 

His  lips  moved  in  silence.  He  was  raptur- 
ously retasting  some  poem  before  him. 

"Where  had  he  been,  then?"  I  was  almost 
whispering,  that  the  sentence  might  come  gen- 
tle to  whichever  section  of  Charlie's  brain  was 
working  on  my  behalf. 

"To  the  Beaches — the  Long  and  Wonderful 
Beaches!"  was  the  reply,  after  a  minute  of 
silence. 

"To  Furdurstrandi  ?"  I  asked,  tingling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Yes,  to  Furdurstrandi,"  he  pronounced  the 
word  in  a  new  fashion.  "And  I  too  saw" — 
The  voice  failed. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  said?"  I 
shouted,  incautiously. 


aoo  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  fully  roused  now.  "No!" 
he  snapped.  "I  wish  you'd  let  a  chap  go  on 
reading-.     Hark  to  this  : 

"  'But  Othere,  the  old  sea  captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred 
Till  the  king  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

"  'And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons 
In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand  and  said, 
"Behold  this  walrus  tooth." ' 

By  Jove,  what  chaps  those  must  have  been,  to 
go  sailing  all  over  the  shop  never  knowing 
where  they'd  fetch  the  land!     Hah!" 

"Charlie,"  I  pleaded,  "if  you'll  only  be  sen- 
sible for  a  minute  or  two  I'll  make  our  hero  in 
our  tale  every  inch  as  good  as  Othere." 

"Umph !  Longfellow  wrote  that  poem.  I 
don't  care  about  writing  things  any  more.  I 
want  to  read."  He  was  thoroughly  out  of  tune 
now,  and  raging  over  my  own  ill-luck,  I  left 
him. 

Conceive  yourself  at  the  door  of  the  world's 
treasure-house  guarded  by  a  child — an  idle, 
irresponsible  child  playing  knuckle-bones — on 
whose  favor  depends  the  gift  of  the  key,  and 
you  will  imagine  one  half  my  torment.     Till 


IN  THE  WORLD"  201 

that  evening  Charlie  had  spoken  nothing  that 
might  not  lie  within  the  experiences  of  a 
Greek  galley-slave.  Bui  now,  or  there  was  no 
virtue  in  books,  lie  had  talked  of  some  desper- 
ate adventure  of  the  Vikings,  of  Thorfin  Karl- 
sefne's  sailing  to  Wineland,  which  is  America, 
in  the  ninth  or  tenth  century.  The  battle  in  the 
harbor  he  had  seen;  and  his  own  death  he  had 
described.  But  this  was  a  much  more  start- 
ling plunge  into  the  past.  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  skipped  half  a  dozen  lives  and  was  then 
dimly  remembering  some  episode  of  a  thou- 
sand years  later?  It  was  a  maddening  jumble, 
and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  Charlie  Mears  in 
his  normal  condition  was  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  clear  it  up.  I  could  only  wait  and 
watch,  but  I  went  to  bed  that  night  full  of  the 
wildest  imaginings.  There  was  nothing  that 
was  not  possible  if  Charlie's  detestable  memory 
only  held  good. 

I  might  rewrite  the  Saga  of  Thorfin  Karl- 
sefne  as  it  had  never  been  written  before, 
might  tell  the  story  of  the  first  discovery  of 
America,  myself  the  discoverer.  But  I  was 
entirely  at  Charlie's  mercy,  and  so  long  as 
there  was  a  three-and-sixpenny  Bohn  volume 
within  his  reach  Charlie  would  not  tell.  I 
dared  not  curse  him  openly;  I  hardly  dared 


202  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

jog  his  memory,  for  I  was  dealing  with  the 
experiences  of  a  thousand  years  ago,  told 
through  the  mouth  of  a  boy  of  to-day;  and  a 
boy  of  to-day  is  affected  by  every  change  of 
tone  and  gust  of  opinion,  so  that  he  lies  even 
when  he  desires  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  nearly  a  week. 
When  next  I  met  him  it  was  in  Gracechurch 
street  with  a  billhook  chained  to  his  waist. 
Business  took  him  over  London  Bridge  and  I 
accompanied  him.  He  was  very  full  of  the 
importance  of  that  book  and  magnified  it.  As 
we  passed  over  the  Thames  we  paused  to  look 
at  a  steamer  unloading  great  slabs  of  white 
and  brown  marble.  A  barge  drifted  under  the 
steamer's  stern  and  a  lonely  cow  in  that  barge 
bellowed.  Charlie's  face  changed  from  the 
face  of  the  bank-clerk  to  that  of  an  unknown 
and — though  he  would  not  have  believed  this 
— a  much  shrewder  man.  He  flung  out  his 
arm  across  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  and 
laughing  very  loudly,  said : 

"When  they  heard  our  bulls  bellow  the 
Skrcelings  ran  away!" 

I  waited  only  for  an  instant,  but  the  barge 
and  the  cow  had  disappeared  under  the  bows 
of  the  steamer  before  I  answered. 

"Charlie,  what  do  you  suppose  are  Skrcel- 
ings ?" 


IN  THE  WORLD"  20;, 

"Never  heard  of  'era  before.  They  sound 
like  a  new  kind  of  seagull.  What  a  chap  you 
are  for  asking  questions !"  he  replied.    "I  have 

to  go  to  the  cashier  of  the  Omnibus  Company 

yonder.  Will  you  wait  for  me  and  we  can 
lunch  somewhere  together?  I've  a  notion  for 
a  poem." 

"No,  thanks.  T'm  off.  You're  sure  yon 
know  nothing  about  Skrcelings?" 

"Not  unless  he's  been  entered  for  the  Liver- 
pool Handicap."  He  nodded  and  disappeared 
in  the  crowd. 

Now  it  is  written  in  the  Saga  of  Eric  the 
Red  or  that  of  Thorfin  Karlsefne,  that  nine 
hundred  years  ago  when  Karlsefne's  galleys 
came  to  Leif's  booths,  which  Lief  had  erected 
in  the  unknown  land  called  Markland,  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been  Rhode  Island,  the 
Skrcelings — and  the  Lord  He  knows  who  these 
may  or  may  not  have  been — came  to  trade  with 
the  Vikings,  and  ran  away  because  they  were 
frightened  at  the  bellowing  of  the  cattle  which 
Thorfin  had  brought  with  him  in  the  ships. 
But  what  in  the  world  could  a  Greek  slave 
know  of  that  affair?  I  wandered  up  and  d<  »wn 
among  the  streets  trying  to  unravel  the  mys- 
tery, and  the  more  I  considered  it,  the  more 
baffling  it  grew.     One  thing  only  seemed  cer- 


204  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

tain,  and  that  certainty  took  away  my  breath 
for  the  moment.  If  I  came  to  full  knowledge 
of  anything  at  all,  it  would  not  be  one  life  of 
the  soul  in  Charlie  Mears's  body,  but  half  a 
dozen — half  a  dozen  several  and  separate  ex- 
istences spent  on  blue  water  in  the  morning 
of  the  world! 

Then  I  walked  round  the  situation. 

Obviously  if  I  used  my  knowledge  I  should 
stand  alone  and  unapproachable  until  all  men 
were  as  wise  as  myself.  That  would  be  some- 
thing, but  manlike  I  was  ungrateful.  It 
seemed  bitterly  unfair  that  Charlie's  memory 
should  fail  me  when  I  needed  it  most.  Great 
Powers  above — I  looked  up  at  them  through 
the  fog  and  smoke — did  the  Lords  of  Life  and 
Death  know  what  this  meant  to  me?  Nothing 
less  than  eternal  fame  of  the  best  kind,  that 
comes  from  One,  and  is  shared  by  one  alone. 
I  would  be  content — remembering  Clive,  I 
stood  astounded  at  my  own  moderation, — with 
the  mere  right  to  tell  one  story,  to  work  out 
one  little  contribution  to  the  light  literature 
of  the  day.  If  Charlie  were  permitted  full 
recollection  for  one  hour — for  sixty  short  min- 
utes— of  existences  that  had  extended  over  a 
thousand  years — I  would  forego  all  profit  and 
honor    from   all   that   I    should   make   of   his 


IN  THE  WOK  LI)"  205 

speech.  I  would  take  no  share  in  the  commo- 
tion thai  would  follow  throughout  the  partic- 
ular corner  of  the  earth  that  calls  itself  "the 
world."  The  thing  should  he  put  forth  anon- 
ymously. Nay,  I  would  make  other  men  be- 
lieve that  they  had  written  it.  They  would 
hire  hull-hided  self-advertising  Englishmen  to 
bellow  it  abroad.  Preachers  would  found  a 
fresh  conduct  of  life  upon  it.  swearing  that  it 
was  new  and  that  they  had  lifted  the  fear  of 
death  from  all  mankind.  Every  Orientalist  in 
Europe  would  patronize  it  discursively  with 
Sanskrit  and  Pali  texts.  Terrible  women  in- 
vent unclean  variants  of  the  men's  belief  for 
the  elevation  of  their  sisters.  Churches  and 
religions  would  war  over  it.  Between  the  hail- 
ing and  re-starting  of  an  omnibus  I  foresaw  the 
scuffles  that  would  arise  among  half  a  dozen 
denominations  all  professing  "the  doctrine  of 
the  True  Metempsychosis  as  applied  to  the 
world  and  the  New  Era"  ;  and  saw.  too,  the  re- 
spectable English  newspapers  shying,  like 
frightened  kine,  over  the  beautiful  simplicity 
of  the  tale.  The  mind  leaped  forward  a  hun- 
dred— two  hundred — a  thousand  years.  I 
saw  with  sorrow  that  men  would  mutilate  and 
garble  the  story;  that  rival  creeds  would  turn 
it  upside  down  till,  at  last,  the  western  world 


206  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

which  clings  to  the  dread  of  death  more 
closely  than  the  hope  of  life,  would  set  it  aside 
as  an  interesting  superstition  and  stampede 
after  some  faith  so  long  forgotten  that  it 
seemed  altogether  new.  Upon  this  I  changed 
the  terms  of  the  bargain  that  I  would  make 
with  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death.  Only  let 
me  know,  let  me  write,  the  story  with  sure 
knowledge  that  I  wrote  the  truth,  and  I  would 
burn  the  manuscript  as  a  solemn  sacrifice.  Five 
minutes  after  the  last  line  was  written  I  would 
destroy  it  all.  But  I  must  be  allowed  to  write 
it  with  absolute  certainty. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  flaming  colors  of 
an  Aquarium  poster  caught  my  eye  and  I  won- 
dered whether  it  would  be  wise  or  prudent  to 
lure  Charlie  into  the  hands  of  the  professional 
mesmerist,  and  whether,  if  he  were  under  his 
power,  he  would  speak  of  his  past  lives.  If  he 
did,  and  if  people  believed  him  .  .  .  but 
Charlie  would  be  frightened  and  flustered,  or 
made  conceited  by  the  interviews.  In  either 
case  he  would  begin  to  lie,  through  fear  or 
vanity.     He  was  safest  in  my  own  hands. 

"They  are  very  funny  fools,  your  English," 
said  a  voice  at  my  elbow,  and  turning  round 
I  recognized  a  casual  acquaintance,  a  young 
Bengali   law   student,    called    Grish    Chunder, 


IN  THE  WOULD"  207 

whose  father  had  sent  him  to  England  to  be- 
come civilized.  The  old  man  was  a  retired  na- 
tive official,  and  on  an  income  of  five  pounds  a 
month  contrived  to  allow  his  sun  two  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  and  the  run  of  his  teeth  in  a 
city  where  he  could  pretend  to  be  the  cadet  of 
a  royal  house,  and  tell  stories  of  the  brutal  In- 
dian bureaucrats  who  ground  the  fact's  of  the 
poor. 

Grish  Chunder  was  a  young,  fat,  full-bodied 
Bengali  dressed  with  scrupulous  care  in  frock 
coat,  tall  hat,  light  trousers  and  tan  gloves. 
Rut  I  had  known  him  in  the  days  when  the 
brutal  Indian  Government  paid  for  his  univer- 
sity education,  and  he  contributed  cheap  sedi- 
tion to  Sachi  Durpan,  and  intrigued  with  the 
wives  of  his  schoolmates. 

"That  is  very  funny  and  very  foolish,"  he 
said,  nodding  at  the  poster.  "I  am  going 
down  to  the  Northbrook  Club.  Will  you  come 
too?" 

I  walked  with  him  for  some  time.  "You  are 
not  well,"  he  said.  "What  is  there  in  your 
mind?     You  do  not  talk." 

"Grish  Chunder,  you've  been  too  well  edu- 
cated to  believe  in  a  God,  haven't  you?" 

"Oah,  yes,  here!  But  when  I  go  home  I 
must  conciliate  popular  superstition,  and  make 


208  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

ceremonies  of  purification,  and  my  women  will 
anoint  idols." 

"And  hang  up  tulsi  and  feast  the  purohit, 
and  take  you  back  into  caste  again  and  make 
a  good  khuttri  of  you  again,  you  advanced  so- 
cial Freethinker.  And  you'll  eat  desi  food, 
and  like  it  all,  from  the  smell  in  the  courtyard 
to  the  mustard  oil  over  you." 

"I  shall  very  much  like  it,"  said  Grish  Chum 
der,  unguardedly.  "Once  a  Hindu — always  a 
Hindu.  But  I  like  to  know  what  the  English 
think  they  know." 

"I'll  tell  you  something  that  one  Englishman 
knows.     It's  an  old  tale  to  you." 

I  began  to  tell  the  story  of  Charlie  in  Eng- 
lish, but  Grish  Chunder  put  a  question  in  the 
vernacular,  and  the  history  went  forward  nat- 
urally in  the  tongue  best  suited  for  its  telling. 
After  all  it  could  never  have  been  told  in  Eng- 
lish. Grish  Chunder  heard  me,  nodding  from 
time  to  time,  and  then  came  up  to  my  rooms, 
where  I  finished  the  tale. 

"Beshak,"  he  said,  philosophically.  "Lekin 
darwaza  band  hai.  (Without  doubt,  but  the 
door  is  shut.)  I  have  heard  of  this  remem- 
bering of  previous  existences  among  my  peo- 
ple. It  is  of  course  an  old  tale  with  us,  but, 
to  happen  to  an  Englishman — a  cow-fed  Mai- 


IN  THE  WORLD"  209 

echh—an  outcast.     By  Jove,  that  is  most  pe- 
culiar!" 

"Outcast  yourself,  Grish  Chunder!  You  eat 
cow-beef  every  day.  Let's  think  the  thing 
over.     The  boy  remembers  his  incarnations." 

"Does  he  know  that?"  said  Grish  Chunder, 
quietly,  swinging  his  legs  as  he  sal  on  my  table. 
1  [e  was  speaking1  in  English  now. 

"He  does  not  know  anything.  Would  I 
speak  to  you  if  he  did?    Go  on!" 

"There  is  no  going  on  at  all.  If  you  tell 
that  to  your  friends  they  will  say  you  are  mad 
and  put  it  in  the  papers.  Suppose,  now,  you 
prosecute  for  libel." 

"Let's  leave  that  out  of  the  question  entirely. 
Is  there  any  chance  of  his  being  made  to 
speak  ?" 

"There  is  a  chance.  Oah,  yess!  But  if  he 
spoke  it  would  mean  that  all  this  world  would 
end  now — instan to — fall  down  on  your  head. 
These  things  are  not  allowed,  you  know.  As 
I  said,  the  door  is  shut." 

"Not  a  ghost  of  a  chance?" 

"How  can  there  be?  You  are  a  Christi-an, 
and  it  is  forbidden  to  eat,  in  your  books,  of  the 
Tree  of  Life,  or  else  you  would  never  die. 
How  shall  you  all  fear  death  if  you  all  know 
what    your    friend    does    not    know    that    he 


210  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

knows?  I  am  afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  I  am  not 
afraid  to  die,  because  I  know  what  I  know. 
You  are  not  afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  you  are 
afraid  to  die.  If  you  were  not,  by  God!  you 
English  would  be  all  over  the  shop  in  an  hour, 
upsetting  the  balances  of  power,  and  making 
commotions.  It  would  not  be  good.  But  no 
fear.  He  will  remember  a  little  and  a  little 
less,  and  he  will  call  it  dreams.  Then  he  will 
forget  altogether.  When  I  passed  my  First 
Arts  Examination  in  Calcutta  that  was  all  in 
the  cram-book  on  Wordsworth.  Trailing 
clouds  of  glory,  you  know." 

"This  seems  to  be  an  exception  to  the  rule." 

"There  are  no  exceptions  to  rules.  Some  are 
not  so  hard-looking  at  others,  but  they  are  all 
the  same  when  you  touch.  If  this  friend  of 
yours  said  so-and-so  and  so-and-so,  indicating 
that  he  remembered  all  his  lost  lives,  or  one 
piece  of  a  lost  life,  he  would  not  be  in  the  bank 
another  hour.  He  would  be  what  you  called 
sack  because  he  was  mad,  and  they  would  send 
him  to  an  asylum  for  lunatics.  You  can  see 
that,  my  friend." 

"Of  course  I  can,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
him.  His  name  need  never  appear  in  the 
story." 

"Ah!  I  see.  That  story  will  never  be  writ- 
ten.    You  can  try." 


IN  THE  WORLD"  211 

"I  am  going  to." 

"For  your  own  credit  and  for  the  sake  of 
money,  of  course?" 

"No.  For  the  sake  of  writing  the  story. 
On  my  honor  that  will  be  all." 

"Even  then  there  is  no  chance.  You  cannot 
play  with  the  Gods.  It  is  a  very  pretty  story 
now.  As  they  say,  Let  it  go  on  that — I  mean 
at  that.     Be  quick;  he  will  not  last  long." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  He  has  never,  so  far,  thought 
about  a  woman." 

"Hasn't  he,  though!"  I  remembered  some 
of  Charlie's  confidences. 

"I  mean  no  woman  has  thought  about  him. 
When  that  conies;  bus — hogya — all  up!  I 
know.  There  are  millions  of  women  here. 
Housemaids,  for  instance." 

I  winced  at  the  thought  of  my  story  being 
ruined  by  a  housemaid.  And  yet  nothing  was 
more  probable. 

Grish  Chunder  grinned. 

"Yes — also  pretty  girls — cousins  of  his 
house,  and  perhaps  not  of  his  house.  One  kiss 
that  he  gives  back  again  and  remembers  will 
cure  all  this  nonsense,  or  else" — 

"Or  else  what?  Remember  he  does  not 
know  that  he  knows." 


212  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"I  know  that.  Or  else,  if  nothing  happens 
he  will  become  immersed  in  the  trade  and  the 
financial  speculations  like  the  rest.  It  must  be 
so.  You  can  see  that  it  must  be  so.  But  the 
woman  will  come  first,  /  think." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  Charlie 
charged  in  impetuously.  He  had  been  released 
from  office,  and  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  I  could 
see  that  he  had  come  over  for  a  long  talk; 
most  probably  with  poems  in  his  pockets. 
Charlie's  poems  were  very  wearying,  but  some- 
times they  led  him  to  talk  about  the  galley. 

Grish  Chunder  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a 
minute. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Charlie  said,  uneasily; 
"I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  with  you." 

"I  am  going,"  said  Grish  Chunder. 

He  drew  me  into  the  lobby  as  he  departed. 

"That  is  your  man,"  he  said,  quickly.  "I  tell 
you  he  will  never  speak  all  you  wish.  That  is 
rot — bosh.  But  he  would  be  most  good  to 
make  to  see  things.  Suppose  now  we  pretend 
that  it  was  only  play" — I  had  never  seen  Grish 
Chunder  so  excited — "and  pour  the  ink-pool 
into  his  hand.  Eh,  what  do  you  think?  I  tell 
you  that  he  could  see  anything  that  a  man 
could  see.  Let  me  get  the  ink  and  camphor. 
He  is  a  seer  and  he  will  tell  us  very  many 
things." 


IN  THE  WORLD"  213 

"He  may  be  all  you  say.  bul  I'm  not  going 
to  trust  him  to  your  gods  and  devils." 

"It  will  not  hurt  him.  IK-  will  only  feel  a 
little  stupid  and  dull  when  he  wake-  up.  You 
have  seen  boys  look  into  the  ink-pool  before." 

"That  is  the  reason  why  1  am  nol  g<  >ing  to 
see  it  any  more.  You'd  better  go,  Grish  Chun- 
der." 

He  went,  declaring  far  down  the  stain 
that  it  was  throwing  away  my  only  chance  of 
looking  into  the  future. 

This  left  me  unmoved,  for  I  was  concerned 
for  the  past,  and  no  peering  of  hypnotized 
boys  into  mirrors  and  ink-pools  would  help  me 
to  that.  But  I  recognized  (Irish  Thunder's 
point  of  view  and  sympathized  with  it. 

"What  a  big  black  brute  that  was !"  said 
Charlie,  when  I  returned  to  him.  "Well,  look 
here,  I've  just  done  a  poem;  did  it  instead  of 
playing  dominoes  after  lunch.  May  I  read 
it?" 

"Let  me  read  it  to  myself." 

"Then  you  miss  the  proper  expression.  Be- 
sides, you  always  make  my  things  sound  as  if 
the  rhymes  were  all  wrong." 

"Read  it  aloud,  then.  You're  like  the  rest 
of  'em." 

Charlie  mouthed  me  his  poem,  and  it  was 


214  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

not  much  worse  than  the  average  of  his  verses. 
He  had  been  reading  his  books  faithfully,  but 
he  was  not  pleased  when  I  told  him  that  I  pre- 
ferred my  Longfellow  undiluted  with  Charlie. 

Then  we  began  to  go  through  the  MS.  line 
by  line;  Charlie  parrying  every  objection  and 
correction  with : 

"Yes,  that  may  be  better,  but  you  don't  catch 
what  I'm  driving  at." 

Charles  was,  in  one  way  at  least,  very  like 
one  kind  of  a  poet. 

There  was  a  pencil  scrawl  at  the  back  of  the 
paper  and  "what's  that?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  that's  not  poetry  at  all.  It's  some  rot 
I  wrote  last  night  before  I  went  to  bed  and  it 
was  too  much  bother  to  hunt  for  rhymes;  so 
I  made  it  a  sort  of  blank  verse  instead." 

Here  is  Charlie's  "blank  verse" : 

"We  pulled  for  you  when  the  wind  was  against  us 
and  the  sails  were  low. 

Will  you  never  let  us  go? 

We  ate  bread  and  onions  when  you  took  towns  or 
ran  aboard  quickly  when  you  were  beaten  back  by  the 
foe, 

The  captains  walked  up  and  down  the  deck  in  fair 
weather  singing  songs,  but  we  were  below, 

We  fainted  with  our  chins  on  the  oars,  and  you  did 
oot  see  that  we  were  idle,  for  we  still  swung  to  and  fro. 
Will  you  never  let  us  go? 


IN  THE  WORLD"  215 

Tin-  salt  made  the  oar  handles  like  sharkskin;  our 
knees  were  cut  to  the  bone  with  sail  cracks;  <>tir  hair 
was  stuck  tn  our  foreheads;  and  <>ur  lips  were  cut  to 
our  gums,  ami  you  whipped  u  because  we  could  nol 
row. 

Will  you  never  let  us  90? 
But  in  a  little  time  we  shall  run  out  of  the  porth"l<s 
as  the  water  runs  along  the  oarblade,  and  though  you 
tell  the  others  to  row  after  us  you  will  never  catch  'is 
till  you  catch  the  oar-thresh  and  tie  up  the  wind,  in 
the  belly  of  the  sail.     Alio! 

Will  you  never  let  us  go?" 

"H'm.     What's  oar-thresh,  Charlie?" 

"The  water  washed  up  by  the  oars.  That's 
the  sort  of  song  they  might  sing  in  the  galley, 
y'know.  Aren't  yon  ever  going  to  finish  that 
story  and  give  me  some  of  the  profits?" 

"It  depends  on  yourself.  If  you  had  only 
told  me  more  about  your  hero  in  the  first  in- 
stance it  might  have  been  finished  by  now. 
You're  so  hazy  in  your  notions." 

"I  only  want  to  give  you  the  general  notion 
of  it — the  knocking  about  from  place  to  place 
and  the  fighting  and  all  that.  Can't  you  fill 
in  the  rest  yourself?  Make  the  hero  save  a 
girl  on  a  pirate-galley  and  marry  her  or  do 
something." 

"You're  a  really  helpful  collaborator.  T 
suppose  the  hero  went  through  some  few  ad- 
ventures before  he  married." 


216  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"Well  then,  make  him  a  very  artful  card — 
a  low  sort  of  man — a  sort  of  political  man 
who  went  about  making  treaties  and  breaking 
them — a  black-haired  chap  who  hid  behind  the 
mast  when  the  fighting  began." 

"But  you  said  the  other  day  that  he  was 
red-haired." 

"I  couldn't  have.  Make  him  black-haired 
of  course.     You've  no  imagination." 

Seeing  that  I  had  just  discovered  the  entire 
principles  upon  which  the  half-memory  falsely 
called  imagination  is  based,  I  felt  entitled  to 
laugh,  but  forbore,  for  the  sake  of  the  tale. 

"You're  right.  You're  the  man  with  imagi- 
nation. A  black-haired  chap  in  a  decked  ship," 
I  said. 

"No,  an  open  ship — like  a  big  boat." 

This  was  maddening. 

"Your  ship  has  been  built  and  designed, 
closed  and  decked  in;  you  said  so  yourself," 
I  protested. 

"No,  no,  not  that  ship.  That  was  open,  or 
half  decked  because —  By  Jove,  you're  right. 
You  made  me  think  of  the  hero  as  a  red-haired 
chap.  Of  course  if  he  were  red,  the  ship 
would  be  an  open  one  with  painted  sails." 

Surely,  I  thought,  he  would  remember  now 
that  he  had  served  in  two  galleys  at  least — in 


in    iiii;  woki.D"  217 

a  three-decked  Greek  one  under  the  black- 
haired  "political  man."  and  again  in  a  Vi- 
king's open  sea-serpent  under  the  man  "red  as 
a  red  bear"  who  went  to  Markland.    The  devil 

prompted  me  to  speak. 

"Why  'of  course/  Charlie?"  said  T. 

"I  don't  know.  Are  you  making  fun  of 
me? 

The  current  was  broken  for  the  time  being. 
I  took  up  a  notebook  and  pretended  to  make 
many  entries  in  it. 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  work  with  an  imaginative 
chap  like  yourself,"  T  said,  after  a  pause.  "The 
way  that  you've  brought  out  the  character  of 
the  hero  is  simply  wonderful." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered,  with  a 
pleased  flush.  "I  often  tell  myself  that  there's 
more  in  me  than  mo — than  people  think." 

"There's  an  enormous  amount  in  you." 

"Then,  won't  you  let  me  send  an  essay  on 
The  Ways  of  Bank  Clerks  to  Tit-Bits,  and  get 
the  guinea  prize?" 

"That  wasn't  exactly  what  I  meant,  old  fel- 
low :  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  wait  a  little 
and  go  ahead  with  the  galley-story." 

"Ah,  but  I  sha'n't  get  the  credit  of  that. 
Tit-Bits  would  publish  my  name  and  address 
if  I  win.  What  are  you  grinning  at?  They 
would." 


2i 8  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"I  know  it.  Suppose  you  go  for  a  walk.  I 
want  to  look  through  my  notes  about  our 
story." 

Now  this  reprehensible  youth  who  left  me, 
a  little  hurt  and  put  back,  might  for  aught  he 
or  I  knew  have  been  one  of  the  crew  of  the 
Argo — had  been  certainly  slave  or  comrade  to 
Thorfin  Karlsefne.  Therefore  he  was  deeply 
interested  in  guinea  competitions.  Remem- 
bering what  Grish  Chunder  had  said  I  laughed 
aloud.  The  Lords  of  Life  and  Death  would 
never  allow  Charlie  Mears  to  speak  with  full 
knowledge  of  his  pasts,  and  I  must  even  piece 
out  what  he  had  told  me  with  my  own  poor  in- 
ventions while  Charlie  wrote  of  the  ways  of 
bank-clerks. 

I  got  together  and  placed  on  one  file  all  my 
notes ;  and  the  net  result  was  not  cheering.  I 
read  them  a  second  time.  There  was  nothing 
that  might  not  have  been  compiled  at  second- 
hand from  other  people's  books — except,  per- 
haps, the  story  of  the  fight  in  the  harbor.  The 
adventures  of  a  Viking  had  been  written  many 
times  before;  the  history  of  a  Greek  galley- 
slave  was  no  new  thing,  and  though  I  wrote 
both,  who  could  challenge  or  confirm  the  ac- 
curacy of  my  details?  I  might  as  well  tell  a 
tale  of  two  thousand  years  hence.    The  Lords 


IN  THE  WORLD"  219 

of  Life  and  Death  were  as  cunning  as  Grish 
Chunder  had  hinted.  They  would  allow  noth- 
ing to  escape  that  mighl  trouble  or  make  • 

the  minds  of  men.  Though  I  was  convinced 
of  this,  yet  I  could  not  leave  the  tale  alone. 

Exaltation  followed  reaction,  nol  once,  hut 
twenty  times  in  the  next  few  weeks.  My 
moods  varied  with  the  March  sunlight  and  fly- 
ing clouds.  By  night  or  in  the  beauty  of  a 
spring  morning-  I  perceived  that  I  could  write 
that  tale  and  shift  continents  thereby.  In  the 
wet,  windy  afternoons,  I  saw  that  the  talc 
might  indeed  be  written,  hut  would  he  nothing 
more  than  a  faked,  false-varnished,  sham- 
rusted  piece  of  Wardour  Street  work  at  the 
end.  Then  I  blessed  Charlie  in  many  ways — 
though  it  was  no  fault  of  his.  He  seemed  to 
be  busy  with  prize  competitions,  and  I  saw  less 
and  less  of  him  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  the 
earth  cracked  and  grew  ripe  to  spring,  and 
the  buds  swelled  in  their  sheaths.  He  did  not 
care  to  read  or  talk  of  what  he  had  read,  and 
there  was  a  new  ring  of  self-assertion  in  his 
voice.  I  hardly  cared  to  remind  him  of  the 
galley  when  we  met;  but  Charlie  alluded  to  it 
on  every  occasion,  always  as  a  story  from 
which  money  was  to  be  made. 

"I    think    I    deserve    twenty-five    per    cent. 


220  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

don't  I,  at  least  ?"  he  said,  with  beautiful  frank- 
ness.    "I  supplied  all  the  ideas,  didn't  I?" 

This  greediness  for  silver  was  a  new  side  in 
his  nature.  I  assumed  that  it  had  been  devel- 
oped in  the  City,  where  Charlie  was  picking 
up  the  curious  nasal  drawl  of  the  underbred 
City  man. 

"When  the  thing's  done  we'll  talk  about  it. 
I  can't  make  anything  of  it  at  present.  Red- 
haired  or  black-haired  hero  are  equally  diffi- 
cult." 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  staring  at  the  red 
coals.  "I  can't  understand  what  you  find  so 
difficult.  It's  all  as  clear  as  mud  to  me,"  he 
replied.  A  jet  of  gas  puffed  out  between  the 
bars,  took  light  and  whistled  softly.  "Sup- 
pose we  take  the  red-haired  hero's  adventures 
first,  from  the  time  that  he  came  south  to  my 
galley  and  captured  it  and  sailed  to  the 
Beaches." 

I  knew  better  now  than  to  interrupt  Charlie. 
I  was  out  of  reach  of  pen  and  paper,  and 
dared  not  move  to  get  them  lest  I  should  break 
the  current.  The  gas-jet  puffed  and  whinnied, 
Charlie's  voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper, 
and  he  told  a  tale  of  the  sailing  of  an  open 
galley  to  Furdurstrandi,  of  sunsets  on  the  open 
sea,  seen  under  the  curve  of  the  one  sail  even- 


IN  THE  WORLD'1  22] 

ing  after  evening  when  the  galley's  beak  was 
notched  into  the  centre  of  the  sinking  disc, 
and  "we  sailed  by  that  for  we  had  no  other 
guide,"  quoth  Charlie.  Tic  spoke  of  a  land- 
ing on  an  island  and  explorations  in  its  woods, 
where  the  crew  killed  three  men  whom  they 
found  asleep  under  the  pines.  Their  ghosts, 
Charlie  said,  followed  the  galley,  swimming 
and  choking  in  the  water,  and  the  crew  cast 
lots  and  threw  one  of  their  number  overboard 
as  a  sacrifice  to  the  strange  gods  whom  they 
had  offended.  Then  they  ate  sea-weed  when 
their  provisions  failed,  and  their  legs  swelled, 
and  their  leader,  the  red-haired  man,  killed 
two  rowers  who  mutinied,  and  after  a  year 
spent  among  the  woods  they  set  sail  for  their 
own  country,  and  a  wind  that  never  failed  car- 
ried them  back  so  safely  that  they  all  slept  at 
night.  This,  and  much  more  Charlie  told. 
Sometimes  the  voice  fell  so  low  that  I  could 
not  catch  the  words,  though  every  nerve  was 
on  the  strain.  He  spoke  of  their  leader,  the 
red-haired  man,  as  a  pagan  speaks  of  his  God ; 
for  it  was  he  who  cheered  them  and  slew  them 
impartially  as  he  thought  best  for  their  needs ; 
and  it  was  he  who  steered  them  for  three  days 
among  floating  ice,  each  floe  crowded  with 
strange  beasts  that  "tried  to  sail  with  us,"  said 


222  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

Charlie,  "and  we  beat  them  back  with  the 
handles  of  the  oars." 

The  gas-jet  went  out,  a  burned  coal  gave 
way,  and  the  fire  settled  down  with  a  tiny 
crash  to  the  bottom  of  the  grate.  Charlie 
ceased  speaking,  and  I  said  no  word. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  at  last,  shaking  his 
head.  "I've  been  staring  at  the  fire  till  I'm 
dizzy.     What  was  I  going  to  say?" 

"Something  about  the  galley." 

"I  remember  now.  It's  25  per  cent,  of  the 
profits,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  anything  you  like  when  I've  done  the 
tale." 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure  of  that.  I  must  go 
now.  I've — I've  an  appointment."  And  he 
left  me. 

Had  my  eyes  not  been  held  I  might  have 
known  that  that  broken  muttering  over  the  fire 
was  the  swan-song  of  Charlie  Mears.  But  I 
thought  it  the  prelude  to  fuller  revelation.  At 
last  and  at  last  I  should  cheat  the  Lords  of 
Life  and  Death! 

When  next  Charlie  came  to  me  I  received 
him  with  rapture.  He  was  nervous  and  em- 
barrassed, but  his  eyes  were  very  full  of  light, 
and  his  lips  a  little  parted. 

"I've   done   a   poem,"   he   said;   and   then, 


IN   THE  WOULD"  223 

quickly:  "it's  the  best  I've  ever  done     Read 
it."     He  thrust  it  into  my  hand  and  retreated 

to  the  \vin<!' >\v. 

I  groaned  inwardly.  It  would  be  the  work 
of  half  an  hour  to  criticise — that  is  to  say 
praise — the  poem  sufficiently  to  please  Charlie. 
Then  I  had  good  reason  to  groan,  for  Charlie, 
discarding  his  favorite  centipede  metres,  had 
launched  into  shorter  and  choppier  verse,  and 
verse  with  a  motive  back  of  it.  This  is  what 
I  read: 

"The  day  is  most  fair,  the  cheery  wind 

Halloos  behind  the  hill, 
Where  he  bends  the  wood  as  seemcth  good, 

And  the  sapling  to  his  will ! 
Riot  O  wind  ;  there  is  that  in  my  blood 

That  would  not  have  thee  still ! 

"She  gave  me  herself,  O  Earth,  O  Sky; 
Grey  sea,  she  is  mine  alone ! 
Let  the  sullen  boulders  hear  my  cry, 
And  rejoice  tho'  they  be  but  stone! 

"Mine !  I  have  won  her,  O  good  brown  earth, 

Make  merry!  'Tis  hard  on  Spring; 
Make  merry;  my  love  is  doubly  worth 

All  worship  your  fields  can  bring! 
Let  the  hind  that  tills  you  feel  my  mirth 

At  the  early  harrowing." 

"Yes,  it's  the  early  harrowing,  past  a 
doubt,"  I  said,  with  a  dread  at  my  heart. 
Charlie  smiled,  but  did  not  answer. 


224  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"Red  cloud  of  the  sunset,  tell  it  abroad; 

I  am  victor.     Greet  me  O   Sun, 
Dominant  master  and  absolute  lord 
Over  the  soul  of  onel" 

"Well?"  said  Charlie,  looking  over  my 
shoulder. 

I  thought  it  far  from  well,  and  very  evil  in- 
deed, when  he  silently  laid  a  photograph  on 
the  paper — the  photograph  of  a  girl  with  a 
curly  head,  and  a  foolish  slack  mouth. 

"Isn't  it — isn't  it  wonderful  ?"  he  whispered, 
pink  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  wrapped  in  the  rosy 
mystery  of  first  love.  "I  didn't  know ;  I  didn't 
think — it  came  like  a  thunderclap." 

"Yes.  It  comes  like  a  thunderclap.  Are 
you  very  happy,  Charlie?" 

"My  God — she — she  loves  me!"  He  sat 
down  repeating  the  last  words  to  himself.  I 
looked  at  the  hairless  face,  the  narrow  shoul- 
ders already  bowed  by  desk-work,  and  won- 
dered when,  where,  and  how  he  had  loved  in 
his  past  lives. 

"What  will  your  mother  say?"  I  asked, 
cheerfully. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  what  she  says." 

At  twenty  the  things  for  which  one  does  not 
care  a  damn  should,  properly,  be  many,  but 
one  must  not  include  mothers  in  the  list.  I 
told  him  this  gently;  and  he  described  Her, 


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j|Dn)*q^iiX    W  •(<(  lunigno  islls  no8  A  wsibnA  nriol.  ^d  9\uv tTgo\\*\f. 


224  "THE  FINEST  STORY 

"Red  cloud  of  the  sunset,  tell  it  abroad; 

I  am  victor.     Greet  me  O   Sun, 
Dominant  master  and  absolute  lord 
Over  the  soul  of  one!" 

'Well?"  said  Charlie,  looking  over  my 
shoulder. 

I  thought  it  far  from  well,  and  very  evil  in- 
deed, when  he  silently  laid  a  photograph  on 
the  paper — the  photograph  of  a  girl  with  a 
curly  head,  and  a  foolish  slack  mouth. 

"Isn't  it — isn't  it  wonderful?"  he  whispered, 
pink  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  wrapped  in  the  rosy 
mystery  of  first  love.  "I  didn't  know ;  I  didn't 
think — it  came  like  a  thunderclap." 

"Yes.  It  comes  like  a  thunderclap.  Are 
you  very  happy,  Charlie?" 

"My  God — she — she  loves  me!"  He  sat 
down  repeating  the  last  words  to  himself.  I 
looked  at  the  hairless  face  the  narrow  shoul- 
ders already  bowed  by  desk-work,  and  won- 
dered when,  where,  and  how  he  had  loved  in 
his  past  lives. 

"What  will  your  mother  say?"  I  asked, 
cheerfully. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  what  she  says." 

At  twenty  the  t!  r  which  one  does  not 

care  a  damn  shoul  :>erly,  be  many,  but 

one  must  not  include  mothers  in  the  list.     I 
told  him  this  gently;  and  he  described  Her, 


She  had  never  been  kissed  by  a  man  before 
Mezzogravure  b,  John  Andrew  &  Son  after  original  by  W.  Kirkpatrick 


IN  THE  WORLD"  225 

even  as  Adam  must  have  described  to  the 
newly  named  beasts  the  glory  and  tenderness 
and  beauty  of  Eve.  Incidentally  I  learned  that 
She  was  a  tobacconist's  assistant  with  a  weak- 
ness for  pretty  dress,  and  had  told  him  four 
or  five  times  already  that  She  had  never  been 
kissed  by  a  man  before. 

Charlie  spoke  on  and  on,  and  on;  while  I, 
separated  from  him  by  thousands  of  years, 
was  considering  the  beginnings  of  things. 
Now  I  understood  why  the  Lords  of  Life  and 
Death  shut  the  doors  so  carefully  behind  us. 
It  is  that  we  may  not  remember  our  first  woo- 
ings.  Were  it  not  so,  our  world  would  be 
without  inhabitants  in  a  hundred  years. 

"Now,  about  that  galley-story,"  I  said,  still 
more  cheerfully,  in  a  pause  in  the  rush  of  the 
speech. 

Charlie  looked  up  as  though  he  had  been 
hit.  "The  galley — what  galley?  Good  heav- 
ens, don't  joke,  man!  This  is  serious!  You 
don't  know  how  serious  it  is !" 

Grish  Chunder  was  right.  Charlie  had 
tasted  the  love  of  woman  that  kills  remem- 
brance, and  the  finest  story  in  the  world  would 
never  be  written. 


ft 


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